Tecumseh
by Tidia
Summary: The boys are on a hunt, and Sam is injured. Dean heals him. This new power is linked to another adventure. A fic within a fic. There are eccentric original characters, action, humor, angst and morelike an episode. Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

Thank you to MOG for betaing and re-editing, re-writing the first two parts. Thank you to Ridley for telling me to pursue the idea. To all others- this is a fic within a fic, and I hope you enjoy it!

Part 1

Millerton, Oklahoma; 11:40 p.m.

Sam held the sawed-off shotgun primed with rock salt close against his leg as he and Dean walked up the three steps to the abandoned Victorian-era home. The house sat on ten acres of land and wasn't visible to any of the neighboring homes, yet Sam still wished to keep as low a profile as possible.

Dean turned on the EMF detector. The meter beeped immediately and he raised his eyebrows at his brother.

Sam just stared back. "Got something there, Bones?"

"So that makes you Spock? 'cause you sure aren't Captain Kirk." Dean folded up the detector and tucked it in his jacket pocket before pulling at the boards covering the door. "Give me a hand."

Within moments the boards were gone and they entered.

Sam cast the beam of his flashlight around the entryway. "Man, would you look at this. It's completely furnished. It's like no one ever left."

"Didn't you read the stories that brought us here," Dean replied. "No one did. This town hasn't wanted to have anything to do with this place for fifty years. I'm surprised it didn't 'mysteriously' burn down." He shined his own flashlight to the left. "I'll go this way."

Silently, Sam went to the right.

Dean completed a search pattern through the sitting room and kitchen, coming around to the front entryway again just as Sam exited the living room. Dean gestured for his brother to follow as he headed up the stairs.

They again split up with Dean taking the right and Sam the other side. Dean entered a bedroom and couldn't help but notice the dramatic drop in temperature. "We tracked you this far," he said in a quiet voice. "Don't you be thinkin' we're gonna give up now."

He circled the room slowly, shining his flashlight along the floor, walls and ceiling. The cold increased and his breath rolled out in visible puffs. "Come out, come out wherever you are…ya nasty son of a bitch."

Dean's light panned across a door on the far side of the room and hit a tarnished doorknob covered with ice crystals. Ignoring his increased pulse and heartbeat, he moved toward it. He reached for the closet's knob and gently twisted the freezing metal handle, letting the door swing open.

He swept the flashlight beam downward and found what they were looking for – a pile of clothes and bones that, fifty years ago, was unconvicted child murderer, Lincoln Beets. Now, however, it was the source of malevolent spirit activity.

"Sammy…found him!" Dean yelled out. Crouching down, he fingered through a dust-covered flannel shirt. His eyes narrowed in on small holes in the fabric, surrounded by dark stains. He pushed the shirt away to expose the thoracic region of the skeleton. He wasn't surprised to see four .45 caliber slugs scattered amongst the rib bones.

"Looks like a little vigilante justice caught up with you, Beets. No wonder you're such a pissed off old ghost."

Suddenly, a small pop echoed in the closet and the beam from Dean's flashlight disappeared. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and Dean had a strong feeling it was time to get down to business, before Beets had a chance to. Dropping the flashlight, he quickly dipped into his jacket pocket to retrieve his Zippo, while his other hand dug into a small drawstring pouch in an inside pocket and came out with a handful of salt. With a snap of his fingers he flicked open the lighter and sparked the flint.

He lowered the Zippo down close to the body to find his target, then unlocked his fist, urgently dusting the bones with salt. He was completely unaware of the closet door's movement until it slammed hard against his back and heels, knocking him to his knees. The lighter dropped from his hands and he felt his palms come down hard amongst the skeletal bones.

The door bounced back violently as Dean scrambled up off of Beets' remains. The Zippo remained true to its reputation and remained lit, even as it lay unattended on the flannel shirt. Dean yanked the entire pouch of salt from his pocket and rolled backwards just as the closet door swung inward again. It slammed loudly and the force exerted by the unseen hand cracked the door jam.

"Sonofabitch!" Dean spat. Pushing himself to his feet he poured half the salt in a line along the bottom of the door, shoved the bag in his pocket and reached for a small bottle of holy water peppered with flakes of iron and silver. "Think you know how to beat me!" he shouted at the door, charging the question with bravado.

At that instant, he heard a door slam shut down the hall, and a blast from the shotgun reverberated through the house. A sharp cry from behind the closed door extinguished any cockiness Dean felt and he turned instantly, sprinting through the darkness down the hall.

"Sam! Sammy!"

Without even slowing, Dean twisted the knob of the door at the same time he threw his body against the hard wood. The door flew open, banging hard against the wall behind it. The same icy temperatures that Dean experienced in the bedroom permeated this space. In the light of a half moon shining in through a dirty window, Dean froze at the image of Sam pinned, motionless, under an enormous oak bookcase.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

"Sammy! Jesus."

Dean dropped down next to his brother, frantically pushing aside a scattering of moldy-scented books. "Come on, Sam." He shoved at the bookcase but his angle afforded him no leverage. Dean tried to ignore the gash across his brother's forehead. Blood flowed freely from the wound, spreading like dark oil across Sam's pale complexion.

"Sam! Open your eyes, damn it!" Dean pushed futilely on the antique wood piece, shouting in frustration as it moved only an inch. A familiar scent caused him to halt his efforts and he looked over his shoulder, praying he wouldn't see what he expected.

Black smoke was already rolling down the hallway and flames licked up the sides of the closest door and danced wickedly up one wall of the bedroom. The unattended Zippo had done what Dean hadn't had time to do – send Lincoln Beets' remains to Hell.

Dean cursed sharply and turned back to Sam. He flung books out of his way and, on his hands and knees, wedged his shoulder under the edge of the bookcase. Sam's body under the wood piece was the only reason why Dean was able to get any position of movement at all. With a fierce shout, Dean pushed up with all his strength, moving the bookcase over just enough to clear his brother's body.

Dean coughed as the chemical-filled smoke spread towards them. He pulled Sam over his shoulders in a fireman's carry, snatched up the shotgun and bolted for the staircase. Using the momentum of the stairs' steep angle, he cleared the steps several at a time to move himself and his brother quickly out the door.

Outside, the cool night air rushed across Dean's face as he laid his brother's body on the gravel next to the Impala.

"Sammy? Come, man, time to wake up. You're gonna be late for school." Blood from the gash on Sam's forehead was smeared down the side of his face. Dean swallowed hard as he realized he'd have to get his brother to a hospital if he didn't regain consciousness in the next minute or two.

He patted down Sam's body, checking for injuries. For a moment, he paused on his heart, relieved at the regularity of its beating. He remained, unmoving, in that position as he noticed a sensation of warmth emanating from his own palm. He stared at the back of his hand, mesmerized by the feeling that he could take away Sammy's injuries and pain.

Dean's breathing grew heavy and a hard shudder coursed through his body. A constricting pain pressed down on him and he gasped for breath. He crumpled to his knees and squeezed his eyes tightly shut as the pain increased.

He didn't see the cut on Sam's forehead close and the broken skin meld together. He only felt a burning slice on his own face. He fought desperately for a breath and felt his muscles shake violently. Unable to hold the connection with his brother, Dean broke the contact and crawled a few feet away, collapsing onto the gravel drive.

TBC

Thank you for the kind reviews! I promise to post regularly since this fic is truly only beginning. Please review!


	3. Chapter 3

MOG is my co-writer on this expedition, sokudos to her too!

Thank you for the kind reviews! Please review and tell your friends!

Part 3

Sam's eyelids fluttered open and his back arched slightly as his body took in a deep breath. A sharp exhale brought on rasping coughs, but purged his lungs of residual smoke.

He stared upward, watching rolls of black smoke stretch an ugly veil between him and the pinpoint stars of the night sky. He coughed several more times and brought a hand up to his forehead. He sensed he should be feeling for something, but he didn't know why, or what that something should be.

His fingers touched on drying blood but further palpitation of the area revealed no injury. His last memory was of the sudden, intense chill that filled the small room he'd been searching. Had Dean called his name?

He lifted his hand from his forehead and stared at it, bringing the other up so that he might look it over as well.

'_No blood here. No cuts, bites or claw marks - always a good thing.'_

In an attempt to shake off the hazy web enveloping him, Sam pushed himself into a sitting position and gave his clothes and body the same once-over. Everything appeared to be in good working order.

He ran a hand down his face and rubbed at his eyes, suddenly aware of the smoke-induced stinging. He swung his head to the right and his eyes widened as he took in the vision of the second story of Lincoln Beets' house engulfed in flames and the lower portion of the old home rapidly succumbing to fire.

"Holy shit," he whispered. "Guess that's one way to burn the bones." He was aware of his brother lying close by. "Dean? Man, I thought…"

Sam's words died on his lips as he realized Dean wasn't just taking his own time to recover. His brother lay face down in an odd position, as if his body had just given out.

"Dean? Dean!"

Sam scrambled to his brother's side and gently rolled him over. An ugly gash on his forehead was the first thing that caught Sam's eye.

'_What the hell happened?'_ Sam's fear intensified with the frustration of being unable to remember how the hunt dissolved into Dean's injuries and Beets' house on fire.

The wood of the old home screeched and popped as the flames chewed through the structure. The heat was growing to a painful intensity and Sam knew it would only be a matter of time before someone responded to the fire.

A piercing shriek ripped through the night and several windows on the second floor exploded outward. Sam threw his body over Dean's in an attempt to protect him and felt debris sprinkle down.

"I'm getting you out of here." Sam stated firmly, while struggling to haul his brother up into some sort of standing position. The sound of a groan lifted a dark weight from Sam's heart and he smiled. "Good. Let's get **ourselves** out of here."

Dean pushed away from his brother and leaned against the front quarter panel of the Impala.

Sam watched him to make sure he was steady. "There's a hospital about thirty-"

Dean's chest ached but he forced air into his lungs in order to relay his wishes. "No hospital."

"Dean, you're hurt. . ." Sam maneuvered his brother's arm so that he could support him and hoped he wouldn't cause Dean pain as he guided him to the passenger's seat of the car.

Dean felt sweat beading on his forehead even as he relaxed into the vinyl-covered seat, but he repeated his decision. "No hospital. I mean it."

Sam's mouth tightened in a frustrated frown, yet he said nothing. He scooped up the shotgun from where it lay in the dirt, flicked on the safety and slid it gently onto the floor of the backseat, then closed Dean's door and circled around to the driver's side.

He settled in behind the wheel before realizing his brother still had the keys. Wordlessly, Sam retrieved them from Dean's coat pocket and took a moment to study the forehead gash he'd noticed earlier. Shadows caused by the house fire rippled through the Impala, and Sam swore it looked as if the jagged edges of Dean's cut were knitting together.

He reached out and gingerly brushed at the healing wound. Dean's eyes flew open and he jerked away from the unexpected touch.

Sam pulled his hand back. "Jeez, man, relax. What happened in there? What's going on?"

Dean's gaze grew glassy and he rolled his head to the side, letting it rest against the cool glass of the window.

"Dean?"

"I don't know," he whispered, closing his eyes. It was as if he'd not intended for anyone to hear the words.

Sam strained to see the cut in the faint light, but nothing was visible. He raised his fingers to the same spot on his own forehead and touched dried blood. Abruptly, he faced forward, slammed the key in the ignition and gunned the engine to life.

He drove silently to the motel, splitting his attention between the road and his brother. He let his mind click over the details of the evening, hoping that if he focused on every little thing, it would help him fill in the gaps.

He remembered the cold of the dark room, Dean casually calling his name, a violent vibration that shook the huge oak bookcase he'd been standing next to, the apparition of Lincoln Beets, and then he remembered the pain.

The lights of the motel's parking lot glowed a pale, sickly green and Sam couldn't help but think it was a fitting beacon to welcome the Winchester boys home. He looked at his brother, sleeping now in the passenger's seat.

"You got some 'splainin' to do," he whispered.

He moved efficiently, stowing the shotgun in the trunk before gently opening Dean's door. The sound of the latch woke Dean with a start and Sam waited for his brother to see him through the car window.

"You need help?" Sam's voice was muffled through the glass.

Dean pressed a hand to his chest and breathed deeply, shaking his head. "Nah, I'm good."

Sam allowed his brother to move unaided to their room, but he stayed close behind until they were safe inside and Dean lowered himself onto the bed he'd earlier claimed as his.

Sam crossed to the bathroom, eager to clean the dried, itching blood from his face. Staring in the mirror, he realized he didn't look much better than Dean. He washed his own face before soaking a second washcloth in warm water and bringing it to his brother.

He resisted the urge to drop it from a height onto Dean's face. The irritation that sprang from his confusion had not faded much. He laid the dripping rag across Dean's forehead and sat on the edge of the other bed.

Dean responded slowly. One hand rose to take control of the cloth and rub it cautiously over the dried blood. Sam gave him a moment before speaking.

"What happened back there?"

"I lost my Zippo."

The statement took Sam off-guard. "What?"

"My Zippo. Ya know, the one with Betty Page on it. That son of a bitch Beets locked it in the closet. But we got the last laugh, didn't we? Lit his own damn shirt on fire, stupid ghost."

Sam was beginning to wonder if he'd made a mistake by not taking Dean to the hospital. He tried to prompt his brother. "I remember being hurt, and then I wasn't, but you were. And now you're fine."

"I've always been fine."

Sam stared at his brother. "I'm serious. The blood on my face was in the same place as that cut on your forehead. You healed me."

Dean lifted the washcloth away from his eyes and met his brother's gaze. "No, I didn't."

"Really?"

Dean let the damp rag fall back into place. "Really."

Sam wasn't sure if his brother was brushing him off or if he honestly didn't remember. Regardless, Sam was determined to have his brother be a witness. In one fluid motion, he grabbed a water glass from the nightstand and held it firmly between both hands over the waste basket.

"Really?" he repeated sharply.

He bore down on the glass, squeezing tightly. The resulting pop and shatter got Dean's attention instantly. He abruptly sat upright.

"Shit, Sammy!"

Sam opened his hand and let the broken shards of glass fall into the garbage. He stared at one deep slice on his left palm, waiting for the blood to ooze to the surface. Within seconds, rivulets of red flowed freely.

"Put your hand on it," said Sam.

Dean looked at him with an uncomprehending expression. "Put **this** on it!" He forced the washcloth into Sam's palm and rose to get their first aid kit.

Sam dropped the rag and grabbed his brother by the wrist, pressing Dean's hand against his own, palm to palm. Sam gasped slightly at the pain brought on by the rough contact, and at the sound, Dean's brow furrowed with concern. At that moment, their attention was drawn to their hands, and a sudden warmth pulsing through their palms.

A few seconds passed before Dean pulled his hand away and dropped down onto the bed. He cradled his left hand close to his body as Sam picked up the washcloth and gently pressed it against Dean's palm until he felt his brother take it.

"It's there, isn't it," asked Sam, "on your hand now?"

The corners of Dean's mouth turned down. "Okay, so maybe I can heal you."

"**Maybe**?" Sam sputtered. "Exactly what happened in Beets' house that I missed out on?"

"Nothing," Dean stated sharply. He didn't want to verbalize what he so strongly suspected.

"Then how?"

"I don't know." Dean propped up a pillow against the headboard and leaned back. "You take an educated guess, Sammy."

"It could be a number of things." He paused as a disturbing thought struck him and he cautiously began murmuring in Latin. "Dominus vobiscum et cum spiritu tuo-"

Dean cast a tired look at his brother and simply frowned. "Knock it off, I'm still me…" His eyes widened suddenly. "Damn…Uncle Frankie."

Sam's brow wrinkled. "You mean when we were in Oklahoma last time?"

His brother nodded, but Sam shook his head. "I dunno, man…are you saying he was the real thing?"

Dean closed his eyes, trying to recall the events from four months ago in Oklahoma.


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you for the great reviews! So glad people are getting into the fic. This is where it becomes a fic within a fic :). More will be posted next week! Please review!

Part 4

**Four months earlier**

"Sammy, you with me?" Dean asked, looking worriedly at his brother's pale skin.

Sam sat low in the passenger's seat of the Impala, resting his head against the window.

They had crossed into Oklahoma over an hour ago, on their way to investigate internet rumors of a paisa bird. Dean's focus now lay elsewhere, however. Even though Sam had slept most of the day, his brother couldn't help but think he looked worse than he had that morning.

Sam nodded in response to Dean's question. "Yeah." His voice was raspy and congested.

Dean kept one hand on the wheel but the other went to his brother's forehead. "Damn, you're burning up."

He studied his brother's pallor again and pressed two fingers against the near side of Sam's throat. He wasn't surprised to feel swollen lymph nodes. Sam weakly swatted his hand away but Dean ignored him. "You still get strep all the time?"

"It wasn't _all_ the time." Sam brought the blanket from his lap up onto his shoulders in an attempt to bring some bit of warmth to his shivering frame. "Couple of times at school." He licked his lips but still didn't open his eyes.

"Well, I'm thinkin' you have it again," Dean retorted. "We don't have any antibiotics left. I told you not every knife that gets thrown at us is dirty, and demons don't have cooties."

He thought about the last time they'd used the antibiotics and cursed himself for believing they didn't need to re-supply right away. A strained question interrupted Dean's thoughts.

"Where's..." Sam's voice faltered and he tried again, simplifying his request. "Water?"

Dean grabbed a blue Nalgene water bottle from behind Sam's seat and passed it over. The younger man lifted the container to his lips, taking a sip, but after a second he spit it back into the bottle.

Dean grimaced. "Jesus, Sammy…backwash?"

"I can't swallow," whispered Sam. The anxious expression on his face scared Dean.

"Just relax, Sammy." Dean willed himself to do the same. He had to think clearly in order to get his brother help. Calming his racing thoughts, one name came into his head. Dean forced the gas pedal down and the Impala responded. They needed to see Ben.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you for the kind reviews. Please keep reviewing they really help the writing process. Hope you like the new characters!**

Part 5

The unfortunate part about living in a double-wide trailer was that it was, essentially, a tin can; and when someone was knocking at your door at 2 a.m. the sound reverberated through the entire structure like banging pots in a military mess hall.

Dr. Ben Metis was used to these emergency wake-ups. He'd stopped sleeping in the nude several years earlier, because finding clothes, let alone dressing, took extra minutes that some people couldn't afford. He stopped short of wearing shoes to bed.

"Washekee sheke," he muttered, slipping into his native Shawnee. _'a fine day'_ - it was a sarcastic expression he'd learned when he was a boy from his father.

He ran a hand through his long, straight black hair as he made his way to the entry of his home-slash-clinic. He pulled open the door and stared at the face in front of him for several seconds before his eyes grew wide with recognition.

"Jesus! Dean Mitchell, it's been fuckin' years. . ."

Ben pushed his hair out of his face again and looked over the tall, young man whom Dean was holding upright on the front steps.

"Okay, let me help you there. . ." Ben took over the job of holding open the screen door from Dean and grabbed his new patient's other arm. He could feel the heat radiating off him. _'Gonna be a long night...no, make that morning.'_

"This is my brother, Sam," Dean said, taking most of the weight. "I think he has strep or something."

"Second door on the right." Ben helped guide them down the hallway, picking up his stethoscope from where it hung from a hook on the wall as he passed. "Sam, can you hear me?"

Dean's younger brother nodded, though didn't open his eyes.

"He has strep," Dean repeated insistently, as they eased Sam down onto one of two hospital beds in the main treatment room.

"Hey, who's got the framed certificates on the wall, huh? Why don't you let the**doctor** make the diagnosis. And so help me, if you brought some nasty plague in here, like the white-ass man you are. . ."

Ben's handling of Sam belied his diatribe. He gently guided his patient to lie down. As he spoke, he checked Sam's temperature with an ear thermometer.

"Sam? My name is Ben Metis. You're at my clinic." The thermometer beeped and Ben read the results aloud for Dean's benefit. "One-oh-three-point-five. Definitely not a hangover."

Dean clung close by and Ben eyed his friend, while slipping on the stethoscope. "Dean, back off and let me work, 'cause you're a shitty nurse."

"Yeah, right, whose stitches left who a scar?" He dropped down into a chair in the corner, and watched Ben work. "Fix him up, okay? And something stronger than amoxicillin."

The exam revealed nothing surprising to the young doctor. He'd seen too many childhood cases of group A Streptococcus infection to count. Granted, Sam's symptoms were more acute than many of Ben's recent cases; but it didn't stop him from merely shrugging and nodding when he showed the positive results of the rapid strep test to Dean twenty minutes later.

"The throat swelling is a little tricky," Ben said, as he carefully draped two more blankets over his patient. "I'd like to start him on some intravenous antibiotics."

"Sure," replied Dean quickly. "Whatever you need to do."

"I mostly only treat my pregnant strep patients with the IV's, but with all that pus down there and the swelling I-"

Dean abruptly cut him off. "Dude! I do** not** need to hear about throats and pus. Just…do your thing, will ya?"

In less than an hour, Ben had an IV started and noticed a positive change in his patient's pallor.

"He's going to be fine." Ben gestured for Dean to pass him another clear liquid-filled bag from where it sat on the exam room counter. "I need you guys to stick around so I can give him a couple rounds of the antibiotics."

Dean nodded.

"Grab a bed." Ben gestured to the other side of the room. "I gave him some morphine for the throat pain, he should rest for awhile. In three hours I'll do another round of antibiotics."

Three hours later, Ben didn't have to set his alarm clock for the recheck. He usually started his day at 6 a.m., getting in a run before patients showed up at the small clinic. Today, he would skip the run, and take a long, hot shower, before checking on his ward.

He poured out two cups of hot, black coffee and made his way down the hall to the main exam room.

Sam opened his eyes as the doctor walked into the room. In a tired, raspy voice he called for his brother. "Dean?"

The older Winchester responded instantly. Though still sleepy, he pushed himself into a sitting position on the second bed. "Hey," he cleared his throat and rubbed at his eyes, trying to wake up. "How ya feelin'?"

"Like crap. And I sound like one of Marge Simpson's sisters."

Ben smiled at the response and passed Dean a cup of coffee. "Sugar and milk's in the kitchen if ya need it." He took a sip of his own drink and spoke to Sam. "You're going to be fine. The voice should be back to normal in the next day or so."

"We're at a clinic," offered Dean. "Ben here is the doctor that fixed you up. He's a friend of mine."

"You have friends?" Sam asked, with a deadpan expression. He studied Ben briefly. Under scrutiny, Metis again pushed back his hair. His uncle frequently found a way to remind Ben that his long straight hair, 'made him look 20 instead of 33, and maybe people didn't trust doctors that looked like kids.'

In Ben's experience, it was his skin color that was the issue. Too many people thought his Native American heritage meant he wouldn't be a good doctor. Though why they thought it qualified him to work in a casino, he'd never know.

"I'm probably it," Ben stated, with a wicked grin. He moved to the white Formica cabinet to retrieve a vial of Clindamycin.

"Oh, you're a funny one, man," replied Dean. He flashed an equally mischievous smile and continued. "Speaking of friendly relations - how's **Frankie**?"

Ben involuntarily flinched at the name and the vial he held slipped from his fingertips. It bounced and clattered against the linoleum floor but rolled to a stop, unbroken. "Damnit, Dean." Ben leaned over and scooped up the small glass container. "I swear, his name gets mentioned and the guy comes knocking on my door."

The only schedule that Uncle Frankie's visits seemed to follow was one of odd coincidence. Though he lived within miles of Ben's home, there were times the young doctor wouldn't see his uncle for several weeks at a time. Then he'd show up suddenly, usually when Ben needed help or an extra set of hands. Uncle Frankie's timing was unnerving.

Dean slid off the bed and patted his brother on the leg. "Get some rest, Sammy, I'm gonna go get something to eat." He lifted the mug of coffee to Ben in a mocking salute and drifted from the room.

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: Please continue to read. MOG and I have decided to really expand this fic, and we hope you all continue to read and review. Thank you to all the kind notes so far-they are making this a joy to write.

Part 6

Even behind closed lids, Sam could tell the sun was beaming into the room. He resigned himself to the inevitable and opened his eyes. The sun slid into the room through the slats of the metal blinds and accentuated his headache.

'_Down to a dull throb,'_ he thought.

He knew he was at a clinic with Dean and a friend of his brother's, but the rest seemed fuzzy. The bed Dean had slept in was back to its unwrinkled state and Sam tested his voice before looking around.

"Hello?"

"Hello." A tap on his right shoulder caused Sam to start and swing his head toward the source. A large, older Native American man sat on a small, wheeled stool, grinning at him.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. Figured you knew I was here." The man interpreted Sam's confused expression and continued. "I'm Ben's Uncle Frankie."

Sam watched as the man flicked his wrist slightly and manifested a business card into his palm, before handing it to Sam. The young man blinked a few times and studied the card.

"W.D.?" he asked, looking at the suffix attached to the man's name.

"Witch Doctor," stated Frankie confidently, giving Sam a thumbs-up sign.

Sam stared at the man, then at the IV bag hanging next to his bed and finally, around the room. _'What the hell is going on?'_

Sam peered at the doorway with an apprehensive look in his eyes. "Is Dean here?"

A familiar face appeared in the door. "He just got out of the shower."

Sam recognized the doctor from earlier. At least, he hoped the man was a doctor, the kind with an M.D.

"Aw, c'mon, Uncle Frankie, what have I told you about these?" Ben crossed to Sam's bed in several strides and plucked the business card from the younger man's fingertips. "He had these made when I graduated med school."

Ben handed the card back to his uncle, while giving the man a reproving look. Frankie just grinned at Sam.

"I can make some stuff just like Viagra," he said, raising and lowering his bushy eyebrows. A voice from the doorway prevented Ben from admonishing his uncle again.

"Frankie! Ben said you'd be around," Dean entered, hair wet from a shower. He extended his hand to the older man.

Dean's face lit up with a smile as the two men shook hands. To Sam's eyes, Frankie held Dean's grip a few seconds longer than his brother expected, as if studying him. Sam would have chalked it up to his own current disoriented state, if not for an odd expression that flitted across Dean's face.

"I told you I'd see you again," said Frankie.

Dean smiled again as he brushed off the awkward feeling and moved to stand on the other side of his brother's bed.

"As I recall, your words were something like, 'You're too much of a…what was that word?"

"Pashewa," offered Frankie, not even trying to hide an amused grin.

"Yeah. 'Too much of a pashewa to not need a doctor again'."

Sam looked from his brother to Uncle Frankie. "What's that?"

"Wildcat," Ben answered. He shook his head even as he showed a hint of a smile.

Dean made a face at Ben. "Yeah, well, **I'm** not the one in need of the doctor this time, now am I?" He looked at his brother. "Speaking of which…how ya feeling?"

"Horrible," answered Sam, plainly. He was about to liken it to being thrown against a wall a few times, but realized that comment would most likely draw too much attention from the doctor. "I really don't remember much of last night."

Dean's lips curved into a quirky grin. "You didn't hurl in the car – that's all that really matters."

Sam rolled his eyes and massaged the back of his neck with the arm not hampered by the IV. "That knowledge will definitely help in my recovery."

Ben cleared his throat, wanting to weigh in. "Well, you have a nasty case of strep. I gave you some steroids for the swelling, morphine for the pain, and an IV drip because you were dehydrated."

Sam looked at the IV line in the crook of his elbow and regretted it instantly. The visualization initiated an immediate itching sensation at the entry point of the needle into his arm.

Ben followed his patient's line of sight. "It's gotta stay in for a couple more rounds of antibiotics." He pulled a tongue depressor from a nearby drawer, ripped the protective paper covering off it and gestured for Sam to open his mouth. "Now let's check that throat."

Dean folded his arms and looked around the exam room.

"Ben, you need any work done around here?" Dean asked.

Sam sensed that his brother was looking to keep their current situation scam-free, while still finding a way to pay back his friend for his help.

The doctor tossed the tongue depressor away before replying. "I was hoping you had a job with health benefits so I could screw over your insurance company."

Dean shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry to burst your bubble there, but 'freelance reporter' means no benefits. You'll have to find someone else to price gauge for the sub-standard care."

Ben stepped around his uncle, who had rolled himself toward the middle of the room, and crossed to the window to point outside. "Yeah, I haven't finished landscaping the front. It's all out there."

Dean gave a quick nod. "I'll have at it." He glanced at his brother as he headed out, predicting Sam's request. "I'll grab your laptop."

Sam waited until Dean left to ask questions. "So how do you know each other?"

Ben unlocked a stainless steel drug cabinet mounted on the wall and retrieved a clipboard hanging on the inside of the door. His attitude was casual as he made notes and answered Sam's questions.

"You're brother was talking big, I decided to take him down a few pegs."

Uncle Frankie stopped his aimless rolling on the stool. "They'd both been drinking. They fought over a girl, who called the cops on them, and I had to haul their asses out of there."

Sam knew Dean had a life of his own during the four years Sam was away at college, but it was strange hearing about such incidents second hand.

Ben stopped writing long enough to fix his uncle with a stern look. "Then he left us in a room with a medical kit and told us get to work." He pulled up his left sleeve slightly. "Your brother cut me with a knife."

Sam looked at the arm, but didn't see any indication of a wound. "You had stitches?"

"Hey, he had a nice, straight knife slice to sew up. I was working with a laceration – jagged edges."

"What did you cut him with?"

"A bottle," the doctor mumbled, focusing again on his paperwork. He made one more quick note before locking the drug cabinet and tucking the clipboard under his arm. "Stupid shit should have been a doctor instead of a reporter, his stitches were better than mine – but don't tell him that. I'd never hear the end of it. He'd send me damn postcards from the road reminding me."

Sam smiled but his mind drifted elsewhere. To have a doctor and a lawyer in the family would be every parent's dream. Sam ached at the thought of what could have been. His reverie was broken by Ben patting his leg.

"I have other patients coming in, so rest up. I'll check on you later."

Sam leaned back on the pillows before realizing Ben's uncle had stayed behind. Frankie twirled slightly on the rolling stool, watching him.

Sam offered a friendly smile and tried to break the awkward silence that he felt. "So… you're a witch doctor."

Frankie rolled his seat forward to beside Sam's bedside. "If you believe in that stuff."

Seeing that Sam was a captive audience, he continued. "You're on Shawnee land. We were moved here by the U.S. government from Indiana. I am of the same blood lines as Tecumseh and his brother Tenskwatawa, The Open Door."

"Open Door?"

"Like to the Spirit World," stated Frankie, as if it were a fact that everyone knew. "A mystic, a seer. At the crossroads of the Good Red Road and the Black Road. Jeez, don't they teach you kids anything nowadays?"

"I'm sorry," Sam said. "I'm really not that familiar with your culture. . ."

Frankie made a dismissing motion with his hand. "My nephew says he's tired of hearing about this shit, but you look like someone that might. So, don't interrupt me." He poured himself a glass of water from a pitcher on the small table by the exam bed.

Sam hoped he hadn't come across as rude. He decided he'd do his best to listen to the older man and not fall asleep.

"Tecumseh had prowess in battle, and his brother was a medicine man - known as the Prophet. They wanted to return to the customs of the Shawnee. In the battle of Tippecanoe, the brothers fought against the United States forces, and The Prophet fell."

"What happened to Tecumseh?" Sam asked. He wondered why they didn't teach this stuff in history classes. It would have held his attention more than memorizing dates.

Frankie shrugged his shoulders. "He continued on in the spirit of his brother - tried to unite the tribes, without success."

"That's not a happy ending," Dean said. He leaned in the doorway, listening, laden down with Sam's backpack and laptop.

Frankie breathed a laugh. "Most stories don't have one."

"He's a patient." Dean gestured towards his brother. "You're supposed to cheer him up."

Frankie stood and made a show of turning slowly in a circle. "Do I look like some sort of candy stripper to you?"

"Striper," Sam corrected.

"No, no, when I get a sponge bath from a woman, she better be there naked with me." The off-color joke garnered a laugh from the boys and Frankie winked at Sam. "Get some rest."

_TBC next week! And hope you liked Uncle Frankie_


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you for the reviews! They are a motivating factor to this fic. We are going to get into the ghost hunting story, which we hope you like.

Part 7

A steady flow of water poured from the garden hose in Dean's hand to the soil surrounding the trees and shrubs he had planted. His gaze became caught up in the hypnotic stream and his mind drifted as he envisioned life energy flowing from the hose to the roots of the young plants.

"You planting pin oak over there, or peyote?" Frankie's voice pulled Dean from his daze. "You're looking kinda stoned."

Dean smiled. "Just weak with hunger. I worked through lunch, ya know."

"Yeah, yeah." The older man held up a brown grocery bag. "I brought over some steaks to grill."

"You're a good man, Frankie." Dean leaned forward and let water from the hose trickle down the back of his neck and through his hair before giving his hands a cursory wash. He let his vision wander to his surroundings and the juxtaposition of colorful wild flowers and dry landscape. His eyes locked on to a bit of movement and Dean's eyes widened slightly.

"Damn, you guys have some big-ass mice out here."

Frankie looked puzzled. "What?"

"There." Dean pointed to where he'd seen a gentle-faced rodent up on its haunches, standing almost a foot tall. "Oh. Well….it's gone now. But it was just over there. Kinda grayish. Big." He held his hands apart to indicate the size.

Frankie stared at him for a few seconds. "You've been in the sun too long."

He walked past Dean and noticed a figure standing at one of the clinic windows. "The nurse is happy to have you here." As he passed the spigot, he turned the hose faucet off and headed up the side walkway that ran to the back of the trailer.

Dean wound up the hose. "She still looking at my ass from the window?"

"Oh, yeah. You finished?"

Dean nodded.

"Come with me through the back. Her husband should be by any minute to pick her up, and he's the jealous type."

**In the backyard...**

Dean slouched in a lawn chair behind the clinic, watching Uncle Frankie inspect the dry apple wood chips that burned under the grate of the gas grill. The older man whistled softly as he unpacked the steaks and placed them on the grill.

Dean's eyebrows rose in an appreciative expression. "Are those porterhouse?"

Frankie smiled mischievously. "I know people."

Dean grinned and shook his head. "Hey, you still mixing up that fire water?"

Frankie slipped a hand to his inside jacket pocket and retrieved a leather-wrapped flask. "I'm experimenting with citrus flavors." He unscrewed the lid and sprinkled the steaks with homebrewed gin. The droplets hit the drip pan under the grating and flames flared up. He seemed satisfied with the flavor additive and took a small drink before passing it to Dean to taste.

"You can't tell," concluded Dean.

Uncle Frankie sighed, took the flask back and sipped again. "You just don't have a sensitive pallet."

"He still can't hold his liquor?" Dean asked, gesturing to the trailer.

"Ben? God, no. Either gets mouthy, or all maudlin when he drinks - downright depressing. 'Thank you for raising me Uncle Frankie', like the only reason I did it was just for his gratitude. . ."

He turned the steaks over with a fork before closing the lid on the grill. "So, do you want to know how I knew I would see you again?"

Dean stretched out his legs. "Hey, you called it before – it's the doctor thing. I attract danger and women; hell, I attract dangerous women. It's no big stretch to say I'll need stitching at some point."

"You're just like me." Uncle Frankie took a seat in a chair next to Dean and mimicked the younger man's position.

Dean pulled up the sleeve of his flannel shirt and placed the bare skin next to Frankie's to show the color contrast. "Not seeing it so much there, Frankie."

"You've got a brother and you would do anything to protect him - like me and my brother -like Tecumseh and Tenskwatawa."

Dean looked confused for a second. "Tecu-? Oh yeah, I remember you telling me about them last time. You said were descended from them, right?"

Frankie nodded. "Blood, spirit, life…it's all connected, all intertwined."

"Now who's gettin' maudlin?" Dean replied, shaking his head. "I'm not seeing the dots."

"My brother enlisted for Vietnam, and I went with him - to protect him, because my grandfather always said that I needed to take care of Bill. . ." He paused to look up at the back screen door as it swung outward and Ben appeared.

The corners of the young doctor's mouth turned down slightly. "Hey…he has high cholesterol. He's not supposed to be eating red meat." Ben turned sideways as Sam came up behind him and squeezed past.

Frankie looked at his nephew with a contemplative expression. "Come on now, Ben, haven't you ever just looked at a cow and thought - 'mmmm, steak'?" The glare he received didn't faze him at all. "No? Oh well, more for me." He rose and went back to man his station at the grill.

"I want steak." Sam croaked, lowering himself into the recently-vacated chair.

"I think at least the **patient** should listen to me," said Ben, as he walked down the steps to join them. "Sorry, you get soup." He moved to his uncle and reached a hand into the man's inside jacket pocket in order to remove the flask. "No drinking, either."

Uncle Frankie sighed. "Steaks are done…unless you've sucked all the life out of them too."

**Inside Ben's Trailer. . .**

In between bites of steak and swallows of beer, the conversation flowed. Ben cut off another piece of the porterhouse on his plate. "So what story are you working on?"

Dean was caught off-guard by the question as he was adding a heaping spoonful of mashed potatoes to his plate. He shot a glance at his brother, who immediately picked up the thread.

"A Native American legend, as a matter of fact," answered Sam. "Ghosts and mysterious happenings are always a guaranteed sell. This one originated in Illinois in the late 1600's, but even into this decade there've been unexplained sightings and the disappearance of livestock. A Jesuit priest that was traveling the Mississippi originally detailed stories and a cliff drawing of a dragon-like creature. The Illini called it the Storm-bird. It was also called 'The Bird that Devoured Men'."

Frankie cut in with a shrug. "Yeah, yeah, The Piasa Bird – complete line of bullshit. Can't believe you're falling for that stuff. Might as well do a story about somebody building houses on cursed Indian land. You should write about me," he suggested, while chewing, "or Tecumseh, but I would make the better story since I'm alive. I've experienced things that would turn you whiter than you already are."

Dean laughed. "Frankie, you are a legend in your own mind."

Sam couldn't prevent the smile that curved his lips. He placed his spoon down after finishing his second bowl of Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup. It curbed his hunger well enough, but it didn't keep him from wishing it was steak as he eyed the remaining piece of meat on the platter in the middle of the table.

Frankie's expression grew lively. "Hey, you should check out the Wheelock Mission."

Ben shook his head and closed his eyes briefly. "Oh no."

"What?" Dean asked, his curiosity was piqued. "What's the Wheelock Mission?"

"Don't say I didn't warn you," mumbled Ben.

Uncle Frankie ignored his nephew. "It's about 30 minutes from here, closer to town. A friend of mine is trying to restore it to make it a Bed and Breakfast. But she's been having some stuff going on there, gotten worse in the last few weeks."

"Stuff?" queried Sam.

"Yeah, right up your alley – 'ghosts and mysterious happenings'. I have to go into town tomorrow anyway, you can drop me off. I'll show you where it is."

Dean looked at Ben. "So why the 'oh no'?"

"You'll meet Scarlett soon enough, my friend."

Frankie pointed a finger at his nephew. "Benjamin Wasabogoa Metis, you're talking about the woman who could have been your aunt."

Ben was in mid-sip of his beer and barely kept the liquid from spewing out of his mouth. "That's a good one!" He looked at Dean and Sam. "They're a textbook love/hate relationship. Half the time they're like a couple of moon calves, next thing ya know she's throwing pottery at him."

"She only did that once."

"Only because it was all she had handy. Just about cleared out her entire shop before he made it to the sidewalk."

"She's an artist?" asked Sam.

"That month she was," replied Ben. "The woman has had more business ventures than husbands. A steady flow of alimony checks is how she funds all the bizarre endeavors."

Frankie cut in, "Bizarre is a pretty strong word-"

"Two words, Uncle Frankie….**chinchilla** **ranch**."

"Now, the only reason that didn't work is because of what a good spirit she is."

"Good spirit?" laughed Ben. "She's got no sense! Who opens a Bed and Breakfast in the middle of nowhere? There's nothing here. No bodies of water or attractions, we're not next to a major freeway - deserted islands see more tourism than this county."

"Chinchilla ranch?" Dean asked. "I've heard of 'em, but can't say that I've ever seen one."

The two beers that Ben had over dinner had freed up his inhibitions quite well and he started in before Frankie could shush him. "Scarlett heard or read somewhere that raising chinchillas was a sure moneymaker, without much initial investment."

Sam winced as he envisioned the outcome. "She didn't have luck keeping them alive?"

"Just the opposite - the things thrived! Bred like rabbits. Problem was, she didn't investigate far enough to realize people raise them for their **fur**. She thought people wanted them for **pets**. After she found out she couldn't just shear them like sheep, she was a wreck."

Dean shook his head. "Does she still have them?"

"No, she let them go! That's right – set free in the wild. As of 11 months ago, the chinchilla population increased by nearly 800 overnight. She told people they chewed through the wire cages and escaped."

Dean looked at Frankie. "Almost his aunt, huh?"

The older man shrugged. "She has her moments."

Ben spoke again. "So yeah, guys, you wanna do a story on the strange and unusual – go visit Scarlett."

Sam looked at Ben. "And where do the beliefs of a man of science like you lie when it comes to the strange and unusual?"

"Me? I'm proud of my culture and heritage," answered Ben. "I wouldn't be here at this clinic doing what I do otherwise. It's a way to help my people. The rest, the stuff about mystics and visiting the spirit realm…I dunno, maybe." He took a long draw on his beer.

Frankie waved a hand, dismissing his nephew's skepticism. "Pfff, you believed well enough when you were little," he said. He relaxed back into his chair and rubbed his stomach with happy satisfaction from the meal.

Dean took a swig of his beer, as if to gain courage to ask his question. "Speaking of what you do here…we kinda need to re-stock our first aid kit. . ."

"I'll give you what I can spare." Ben got up to put his plate in the sink. "My girlfriend is a pharmaceutical rep, she sends a lot of freebies my way."

"Thanks, man, I appreciate it."

"That sounded like it hurt to say," observed Uncle Frankie as he handed his plate and Sam's bowl to his nephew.

"Are you kidding? That was like Mister Rogers sincere…" Sam said, grinning mischievously. "You should hear what he tells women."

"Hey, those are trade secrets, Sammy." Dean pointed his fork menacingly at his brother.

"Oh please." Sam placed a hand over his rib, mimicking Dean. " 'God must have taken out one of **my** ribs and given it to you - we were meant to be together."

"We were in the Bible belt, man, besides - it **worked**." Dean picked up what remained on the table and placed it on the counter.

"You need help." Ben stated. He moved the dishware into the sink to rinse it before washing.

"I have to remember that," Frankie said with a nod. It was quite apparent that he liked the pick-up line.

Dean saw the flask on the counter and twisted it open to take a swig before handing it back to Ben's uncle while the doctor's back was turned. "You're gonna have to pay royalties, Frankie - it's copy written."

Frankie tucked the flask in his coat and patted the pocket. "I'll come by tomorrow morning. We'll head into town."

"Excellent idea," Ben raised his voice over the rush of water from the faucet. "Maybe then my nurse will be able to pay attention to what's going on **inside** the clinic."

TBC--Please review they are appreciated!


	8. Chapter 8

**Authors Notes: First of all, MOG has totally outdone herself. I do a draft and then she adds and edits, and well you see the results... Second, someone notice the chinchillas! We try to add things that are fun, but also don't waste words, and everything is important. All the inforrmation about Tecumseh, and the Mission House is true. A little research goes along way. Please read and review! And tell your friends about this fic. We hope that there is something for everyone (Scarlett is another new character that we hope everyone likes) and an action sequence will be posted tomorrow.**

* * *

The morning sun fought to burn through a layer of gray clouds when Dean and Sam pulled up to Uncle Frankie's house. The older man sat in a lawn chair in his front yard, looking like he was interested in little more than watching the world go by. His long, jean-clad legs stretched out, allowing the heels of his boots to dig into the dirt patch terrain. A pair of aviator sunglasses shielded his eyes from the sun and from view. 

Dean shifted the Impala into Park as Frankie approached the driver's side. The older man smiled at Dean. "You gonna let me drive?"

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Uh, no. But I'll let you get in the back seat." He gestured for Frankie to enter on his brother's side. Sam opened the door and stepped out to give the older man room to get in.

Within a minute of being on the road, Frankie stretched his arms across the backseat and settled in comfortably. "Damn, Dean, it's like you're my chauffeur." He clasped his hands briefly before rubbing them together in a dramatic fashion. "Pull up along side of somebody and ask them for some Grey Poupon."

Sam turned his face toward the window but did little to hide his smile. It was always so amusing when someone managed to push his brother's buttons.

"Where exactly are we going?" Dean asked bluntly, while turning up the radio.

Sam mumbled under his breath. "And why are we in this handbasket?"

Frankie settled into his seat and pointed vaguely forward. "Just go that way till I tell you to turn."

* * *

Sam spotted the house a half a block away. He silently hoped he was wrong, but his instincts told him their destination was the two-story, purple home with coral-colored trim. 

"Up here on the right," said Frankie, "with the orange mailbox."

"How did I know," Sam mumbled. He exchanged a look with his brother as Dean pulled up to the curb and shut the engine off. Dean raised his eyebrows but Sam couldn't tell if it was due to being impressed or slightly afraid. The lawn décor was like nothing they'd ever seen.

They let Frankie lead the way up the narrow path. From one far corner of the yard a flock of no fewer than 15 plastic pink flamingos stared at them with black, beady eyes. A small fishpond had attracted a herd of miniature cement goats and one aqua-colored burro, pulling a stone cart of the same hue. Closer to the house, a two-foot tall plastic goose was dressed in witch regalia, complete with pointed hat and long, black cape.

Brass raccoons, ceramic elves, polyethylene camels. Stone and plastic creatures, both real and mythical, were positioned so that all eyes were upon any visitors coming up the walk. Sam felt the urge to move slow and quiet, lest he stir anything into aggression. He jerked back suddenly, bumping into his brother, as one of the animals moved.

"Damn – is that a rat!"

Dean saw it too when it scampered away into a hedge. A long, bushy tail added to the complete picture of the creature he'd seen in Ben's yard.

"No, no – it's like a big mouse-rabbit thing. Frankie, look! There – what is that?"

Frankie looked over his shoulder to where Dean pointed. "It's a garden gnome...what does it look like?"

"No," Dean sputtered, "behind that. There was…"

Frankie, however, was already clomping up the porch steps. He'd pulled the screen door open and turned the front door handle before Sam caught up to him.

"Um…should we knock, or something?"

Frankie dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. "We're friends! Scarlett!"

He pushed open the door and walked through the entryway into the living room. "Bezon!" He glanced back at Sam. "That's Shawnee for 'hello'…see, ya learn something new every day."

A fierce scream pierced the air and a formidable looking, older Native American woman burst through a doorway at the far end of the living room. One hand raised a Louisville Slugger over her head, ready to strike. The other hand maintained a grip on a highball glass, filled a third of the way with ice cubes and a whiskey-colored liquid.

Her yell faded as Sam and Dean's surprised shouts echoed through the house. In a split second, Dean's brain ran through a list of what kind of evil incarnation this could be; and what would be the best weapon to use against it.

The woman stopped abruptly and stared at Frankie. "You bastard, you scared me half to death! Who says you can just walk into my house!"

"Scarlett, ulethi equi'wa--"

"Don't you 'beautiful woman' me, you son of a--"

Frankie interrupted smoothly. "Boys, meet Ms. Scarlett Ellis. Scarlett, this is Dean and Sam. They want to check out the Mission."

Frankie smiled and slipped the highball glass from Scarlett's hand. He took a sip, ignoring the baseball bat that now rested on her shoulder. Scarlett, meanwhile, appraised the Winchester boys with a careful eye, and Sam stood a little straighter under the scrutiny.

Scarlett shrugged. "Two teams in as many days. You're more than welcome to try."

She paused deliberately to watch Frankie as he walked to the kitchen. A seductive growling sound emanated from her throat. "I tell ya, that man has the finest ass in three counties."

Dean coughed, muffling a laugh. Sam's eyes widened briefly, mortified by the woman's show of brazenness in front of strangers. Finding his voice, he directed her back to the topic at hand. "Someone investigated already?"

"Have a seat, honey. Where are my manners?" Scarlett leaned the bat against the wall and sat on the edge of the couch, crossing her legs. Her long, broomstick skirt bunched up and from Sam's position he noted the gray-shaded tattoo of a cherub-faced child on the outside of her left calf. It was only a head-and-shoulders portrait and Sam suspected the baby might have been around a year old.

He didn't mean to stare, but the artist had captured such beauty and innocence in the baby's large, dark eyes and the curve of its little, pursed lips. Frozen in time, the infant would forever have a glow of peace.

It struck Sam as a memorial piece and he felt embarrassed when he glanced up and noticed Scarlett watching him.

"Wasn't I a beautiful baby?" she asked, studying the artwork on her leg. "I wanted to have it put on my backside, if ya know what I mean, that way it would stay baby soft. But then I thought it would sag too much."

Sam tried to think of something nice to say, but words had escaped him completely and he simply nodded.

"You were saying you had another team?" Dean asked. He subtly knocked his brother on the leg to pull back Sam's focus.

From a pile on the coffee table, Scarlett gave them each a brochure with a sketch of an inn on the cover.

"Oh yes, honey. I decided to open a B and B at the Mission - I think it's just what this town needs to attract tourism." Scarlett clasped her hands together in her lap and leaned forward. "I like to think my second husband has guided my hand as I've spent his life insurance payout. He was perrrfect, said I had quite a mind for business."

"Yeah, I can see that." Dean was starting to understand why Ben had wished them luck that morning before they'd left.

"I'm perfect!" Frankie stated, patting himself on the chest as he entered from the kitchen and caught the tail end of the conversation.

Scarlett ignored him. "So, I bought the Wheelock Mission. There've always been stories about it. I figured it would add to the ambiance." She waved her hands in a gentle, dramatic fashion.

"Stories?" queried Sam.

"I'm gettin' there, honey. It used to be one of those ridiculous Indian schools. Train up the redman to be white. In this case, it was redwoman. It was a girls' school run by some sisters - the nun-type, not the family kind. Three Cherokee girls were murdered there. Oh, when was it, early 1900's?

"It was fine up until a few weeks back. Peter, my contractor, him and his boys knocked out a couple of walls for the bedrooms and since then they've been hearing footsteps, knocking, voices. One of them said he saw blood oozing from the tree trunks out front. Like I need that. When one of the guys said he was pushed halfway down the stairs that go up to the second floor-"

"She figured she should get somebody in to see what could be done." Frankie dropped down on the couch. Scarlett took her glass from him and appraised the lower liquid level.

"You could have at least refreshed it if you were going to drink this much." She focused again on Dean and Sam. "I called some people, like Ghostbusters, but on the up-and-up. They were there last night, but now they say they can't go back in. They said something about calling their consultant. What is that about? A consultant for ghosts?"

Sam narrowed in on the history. "I'm sorry, if I could back up a little, you said murdered?"

"Somebody broke in one night, stabbed three," replied Scarlett. "Just little girls, somewhere around 7 or 9 years old, I think. They never figured out who did it." She looked at Frankie and he took up more of the story.

"They had at least a couple of suspects," he said, "but there was never a trial. Didn't matter much back then, 'cause the girls weren't white."

"But ever since I was little," said Scarlett, "people always talked about seeing things in the trees out front. Nobody said anything about getting pushed down stairs. Who's going to want **that** in a bed and breakfast?"

Dean raised an eyebrow at Frankie. "Gee, I thought you would have dealt with it by now, you being a witch doctor and all. Frankie Metis - the myth, the legend; yeah, riiight." He grinned, delighting in his first opportunity to annoy the older man since the chauffeur comment.

"I deal with the here and now," replied Frankie, patting Scarlett's leg, "not the past." He moved over on the couch to sit closer to the woman but she pushed him away playfully. "And I'm still the legend, ask Scarlett."

Sam interrupted quickly. "You mind if we check it out?"

"Oh, honey, be my guest. I'll offer you the same I offered the last team – ten thousand if you can clean that place."

Dean's eyes widened. "That would be dollars?"

"You can call those other guys if you want – like a tag team. Like I say, honey, the more the merrier," Scarlett patted Frankie's hand. "Well, when you're drinking at least...and dancing...and debaucherizing."

As Sam and Dean stood, Dean looked at Uncle Frankie. The man remained unmoving next to Scarlett. "You coming?"

Frankie replied, while still holding Scarlett's gaze. "I'll make my way back."

Sam was already edging towards the front door, eager for escape before witnessing anything that would burn a disturbing image into his brain for life. He held up the brochure in his hand. "Okay then, um…looks like we've got directions. Are there keys, or…."

Scarlett motioned toward the entryway. "There's a set in the basket by the door. The ones with the Troll keychain. Those ghost people's card is there too. I wrote the address of their hotel on the back."

Five seconds later, Sam was on his way out the door. He was leaning against the passenger's door of the Impala by the time Dean made his way down the front path. Unlocking Sam's door, Dean grinned at his brother's apprehensive expression and circled around to the driver's side as Sam spoke.

"You know these people are touched." He held up the two-inch tall Troll keychain, showing Dean the flame orange hair and creepy plastic perma-smile.

"What, Sammy, a little senior love got you freaked?" Dean opened his door and leaned on the roof. "I like them."

"You would," replied Sam, before dropping into the passenger's seat and pulling the door closed.

**TBC continued-- thank you for being patient and reviewing!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: Thank you for the kind comments. We really enjoy them and they keep us writing. We wish more people were reading this fic, but beggers can't be choosers. But, can anyone suggest how to draw people in? So ..finally an action and we have at least another 2 planned (maybe 3). **

Part 9

A light rain peppered the Impala's waxed finish, leaving behind dark spots of water and dust. Sam stood on the sidewalk in front of the Wheelock Mission and ignored the droplets that spat down on him. The brick and wood framed structure was boxy and practical in its design, offering a plain front that blended in naturally with the maple trees standing in the yard.

Nothing struck Sam as outwardly malevolent, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that this was a place where one shouldn't let down one's guard. He glanced back at Dean, who stood at the car's open trunk. Sam's brow creased slightly and his brother knew what he was thinking.

"I'm just getting **this**, jeez." He raised the EMF detector to show Sam, before closing the trunk. "We're just checking the place out, the gun is still locked up back here. It's not like I'm gonna go busting in like some 'seventies cop show."

"I didn't say anything."

"You gave me that look."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Are we doing this or what?"

"For 10 grand, hell yes, we're doing this."

"Then let's do it." Sam pointed toward the thick trunks of the maples. "You should start scanning here."

"Why," teased Dean, "your Spidey-senses tingling?"

Sam didn't reply and Dean looked at his brother more closely. "Hold up. Seriously, Sammy, you saying you're feeling something?"

Sam kept his focus on the house. "It's nothing, man. Overactive imagination. Let's get out of the rain."

Dean knew that whatever his brother felt, he wasn't interested in discussing it. For Sam's sake, he let the topic drop, brushing it aside casually. "You always **bitch** when **my** imagination gets active."

"That's not an imagination," replied Sam, as he walked towards the mission, "that's softcore porn."

Dean stood alone on the sidewalk and called out to his brother's retreating figure. "There's nothing wrong with porn."

* * *

The palpable amount of remodeling dust in the entryway made Dean wonder how much work would have to be done before Scarlett could open for business.

Sam verbalized his brother's thoughts. "Looks like she printed up the brochures a little early."

"Hey, man," retorted Dean with a grin, as he checked the EMF detector for activity, "weren't you listening - she's got quite a mind for business."

Sam smiled back and walked deeper into the mission, knowing his brother would follow. The hardwood stairs creaked as he headed up to the second floor.

"Scarlett said things started happening after they knocked out walls for bedrooms, probably means whatever we're looking for is going to be up here."

The wood steps squeaked with each bit of pressure put on them, but they felt solid despite their turn-of-the-century construction. Evidence of recent demolition work was scattered throughout the second floor.

The stairs ended in the center of a hallway. Natural light flooded in from the left end of the passage and Sam walked towards a large, open room. He twitched slightly as a fat droplet of water smacked him on the head. He tried to step out of the way but another drop hit the nape of his neck and slithered down the back of his shirt.

Dean watched his brother do an odd shimmy and smiled when he saw a fresh water stain on the floorboards. "Guess we should tell Scarlett she has a leak."

Sam shot his brother a dirty look. "Are you picking up anything?"

Dean glanced down at the EMF detector and his expression grew serious. "Yep."

Sam waited for his brother to elaborate, but an answer came from elsewhere. The sound of light footsteps echoed up the stairs. The two men unconsciously took a step away from each other, moving into defensive positions. The steady scuffing grew louder, nearing the top of the steps. Sam risked a glance at his brother but Dean's focus was fixed wholly in the direction of the possible threat.

The sound of a young girl's quick breathing reverberated off the walls of the hallway. Dean heard the light clomp of hard-soled shoes pass within ten feet of him, moving in Sam's direction. Sam's eyes followed the sound, trying to track the movement. His expression, however, altered drastically in a fraction of a second.

Dean saw a look of shock hit his brother and he watched as Sam's body jerked sharply. Sam's eyes widened in surprise and he gasped in reaction to an unseen physical touch. He shuddered and leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees.

"Whoa."

Dean was to him in an instant, resting a hand lightly on his back. "You all right? What the hell was that!"

An involuntary tremor passed through Sam's body again. "Cold," he gasped. He took a couple of breaths before standing upright. "That was weird."

"No shit. You should have seen your face. You still cold?"

Sam shook his head. "I'm good." He looked at Dean. "I think we can definitely say there's something to the stories."

Dean remained close to his brother. "Could you get any kind of bead on it?"

"Besides really freakin' cold?" replied Sam with a smile. "Nothing really, it happened so quick. It's like it passed right through me. But definitely not a dark presence. If anything, it felt kinda…I dunno, scared? Apprehensive, maybe? It's hard to explain. Like she was trying to hide from something."

" 'She'?"

"Definitely."

Dean grinned. "Maybe she wanted to get inside your--"

"**Don't** say it."

Dean let some of his levity drop. "You want to go?"

"No," Sam answered, "let's check it out a little more."

Dean let his brother lead the way toward the back of the house. A large half-circle shaped window high up on the back wall let natural light in. A leaded, stained-glass pattern sat in the middle of the window. Dean suspected it was simply a decorative design, but his jaded eye transformed it into a single upside down droplet of deep red blood, surrounded by green and amber leaves. With the gray clouds and raindrops smacking against the old glass, the window did little to offer brightness.

Sam gauged the recent remodeling work and offered up a guess. "This seems like it would be the right placement for the original dormitory." He pointed to a seam mark along the wall as he walked ahead into the adjoining room. "Lots of cases of spirit activity are reported after changes are made to an original structure."

Dean shook his head. "What did Scarlett say - seven to nine years old. What sort of sick fuck does something like that? Not man enough to test himself in a fair fight…"

A faint, urgent whisper made him pause - a little girl's voice that seemed to come from behind, yet all around him at the same time. The pattern of the language made him suspect it was Native American.

"mat-ou-oui-sahelene… mat-ou-oui-sahelene…"

Dean's heart rate spiked and he looked back down the hall toward the stairwell, half-expecting to see someone standing there. He didn't take his eyes from the hallway, but called softly to his brother. "Sammy? Sam, I got something here."

He could hear his brother moving through the adjoining room on the other side of the dormitory. He looked over his shoulder to call again and his peripheral vision caught movement high up at the half-moon window.

The old leaded glass seemed to pulse inward. Dean watched the dark red centerpiece elongate and stretch for a brief second. He squeezed his eyes closed, hoping to clear his vision. He stared again and saw only raindrops hitting a stained glass window.

Running a hand down his face, he breathed deeply. His heart fed off the 'fight or flight' adrenaline surge and continued to pound in his chest. No matter how long he hunted, he didn't think he'd ever get used to paranormal activities. He looked back toward the hallway and listened for the echoing whisper.

The only voice he heard, however, was Sam's.

"Aw man, how many leaks can one roof have?"

Dean couldn't prevent a grin as he envisioned Sam being hit again by random, icy drops of rainwater. He walked towards the archway that separated the dormitory from the room where his brother was.

Sam wiped a cold droplet from the side of his face just as another one hit his forehead and trickled down his temple. He turned to see Dean frozen in the doorway with a strange, tense expression on his face.

"Sammy…walk to me, right now."

Sam watched his brother's eyes flick upward for just an instant and he let his own vision follow. Hundreds of thick, red droplets clung precariously across the entire ceiling of the room, nearly obscuring the antiqued white paint.

A sickening feeling rushed through Sam when he looked at his stained fingertips and realized what he'd actually just wiped from his face. His stomach tightened and his field of vision narrowed as darkness loomed in from the periphery. A flashback to Jess's death threatened to strip him of consciousness.

"Sammy, now."

His brother's firm, quiet voice broke Sam from his static position, but the first step he took shook the room alive.

A folded sawhorse leaning against one wall vibrated violently, banging repeatedly like a warning drumbeat. Sam lowered his head and sprinted towards his brother. Drops of moisture rained down, striking his exposed skin. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the smears of blood that he imagined were there.

Dean's voice demanded his attention. "DUCK!"

Sam felt two hands grab him and push him downward. The air in his lungs rushed out as Dean's body landed across his back. Something flew through the space where they'd just been and crashed against one of the dormitory walls.

The heavy plastic sawhorse clattered against the floor, then stilled and silence settled on the room. Sam inhaled deeply as Dean rolled off him.

"You all right?" Dean asked.

Sam raised himself up to his hands and knees and nodded. "You?"

"Hell of a lot better than if one of us had taken **that** in the head."

Sam looked to where the sawhorse rested peacefully on the other side of the room. The memory of red smears caused him to start. Dean's voice reassured him immediately.

"It's gone, man. It's like it was never there."

Their focus moved from Sam's clothes to the room that rained blood only seconds earlier. Everything was normal, clean and untouched.

A faint grin tugged up one corner of Dean's mouth. "So whaddya think, blood shower makes it a one or two star establishment?"

Sam shook his head but smiled. Since they'd been kids, Dean did two things consistently – watched out for Sam and took seriously as few things as possible. Dean stood and reached a hand down, pulling his brother to his feet.

"**Now** do you want to go?" asked Dean.

"I could do that." Sam brushed off his clothes and cast a glance back at the room behind them. "I sure didn't feel any anger like that when whatever it was passed through me earlier."

Dean headed for the stairs. "I don't think that's what that was."

Sam's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"There was something behind you back there. A specter, a shadow, I don't know – I saw something. I think it's about time we go talk to Scarlett's ghostbusters."

Dean felt naked without his hunting equipment and a sense of relief settled on him when they made it to the front porch and Sam locked the door behind them. They matched a brisk pace for the car. Sam desperately wished to avoid being rained on for the time being. He ignored the tingling that brushed a cold sensation across the back of his neck.

He didn't need to look at the corner window on the second floor to know something was watching them.

* * *

TBC 


	10. Chapter 10

**Authors Notes: ** Please note this is still a flashback and we are working towards how Dean got the "powers" to heal Sam. Secondly, there was a comment on the reviews that there would only be a few parts left--AU CONTRAIRE! We are at the half way point (we think G>) Last but not least-- A SHOUT OUT TO: **Karma** and **H.T. Marie** for recommending this fic! Thanks! And Ridley for everything else.

* * *

Part 10

Dean let out a low whistle as he and Sam exited the Impala and stared at the vehicle in front of them. A cup of E-Z Mart coffee warmed Dean's hands despite the overcast weather. "Damn. When they said their RV was in the hotel parking lot, I didn't think they meant the **entire** parking lot."

Taking up 40 feet of the Ramada Inn's back lot was a Fleetwood Providence 39L motorcoach. A compact satellite dish peeked up from the roof and a conservative logo colored a portion of the passenger's side panel.

In a gray, blocky font, the letters 'RIP' were boldly painted. Beneath them - 'Rational Investigations of the Paranormal - Explaining the unknown since 1993.'

Sam shook his head. "I don't think you can even touch one like this for under two-hundred thousand."

"Forget the price, how do they afford to keep gas in it?"

Sam knocked lightly on the door but Dean waited only a few seconds before calling out and knocking again.

"Hello?" He pulled on the handle but was not surprised to find it locked. "Here, hold this," he said, passing his coffee to his brother while reaching into one of the inside pockets of his leather jacket.

Sam shook his head the second he saw the familiar zippered case containing Dean's lock picks.

"**No**. No, no, no, no, no. **Dean**, we just talked to them on the cell **fifteen** minutes ago." He looked towards the hotel, hoping the owners of the mammoth rig were not around. He stared again at his brother, who was busy working on the lock of the side door. "Would you cut it out! I mean it." He rubbed the bridge of his nose and muttered to himself. "God, why couldn't I have been born an only child?"

Dean flashed him a grin. "Then you woulda been even more boring than you are now."

Sam glanced around furtively. "They've got to be close by. You can't just walk in."

Dean smiled again. "Nah, it's really easy – watch." The tumblers of the lock clicked and he returned the picks to his jacket before plucking his coffee from Sam's hands, opening the door and heading up the stairs.

His voice floated down from inside, taunting Sam. "Oh man, we are so on the wrong end of the right business." He leaned down to look at his brother. "Come to the Dark Side, Luke."

Sam watched as Dean disappeared from view. The curiosity was too great for him and he took one quick look around before joining his brother.

The interior had a feeling of controlled chaos. Reference books and magazines filled any space not taken up by electronics. A love seat and two recliners had several overnight bags and silver-colored aluminum equipment cases laid out on them.

Where the original 46-inch wide sofa once sat, there was now a workstation, with three Dell laptops haphazardly stacked next to a docking station and a 21-inch, high-resolution, digital, flat panel monitor. A postcard of Mulder and Scully was taped to the wall above the monitor. Next to it hung a photo of several men ranging from early 20's to mid 30's, seated at a bar table with a lot of beer bottles and Penn Jillette & Teller.

Sam scanned the titles of some of the books and periodicals stuffed into a bookcase. "_European Journal of Parapsychology_, _Skeptical Enquirer, Physiological Effects of Infra-Sound_, Gauld's _Mediumship and Survival_….hey, here's a classic - Corninda's _13 Steps to Mentalism_. At least they seem to have a decent balance of belief and skepticism."

Dean spoke up from the kitchen area. "They've got a damn nice coffee pot too." He read the logo aloud as he peeled the flimsy, plastic lid from his to-go cup and topped off his coffee with a steaming, deliciously scented blend. "Technivorm MoccaMaster CD. Never heard of it, but it looks expensive." He shook his head and mumbled to himself, "**Definitely** on the wrong end of this business."

"Nice setup," commented Sam, "no doubt about that." He picked up a TriField Natural EM Meter from a shelf. "These things retail for about 220 dollars."

"Hey, we've been getting by just fine," Dean replied, feeling liked his homemade detector was being insulted.

Sam shot him a look. "Oh, so you can comment but I can't?"

"Older brother prerogative," answered Dean.

Sam rolled his eyes and put the meter back on the shelf. Dean decided it might be a good time to hustle his brother back outside before Sam started to complain about their meager existence.

"C'mon. That is, if you think you can tear yourself away from the books."

Outside, they leaned casually against the Impala and waited less than a minute before two figures, carrying a few cases and equipment bags, exited a side door of the hotel. As they got closer, Sam and Dean recognized them as two of the men from the bar photo.

The taller of the two, a man in his mid-thirties with dark, short-cropped hair shifted a square aluminum case to his left hand and greeted the Winchester boys.

"You must be Dean and Sam." His eyes lingered over the Impala. "Sweet ride. Hell of a lot more fun than this thing." He hitched a thumb toward the motorcoach. "I'm Matt, and this is our resident sound expert, Josh Hagin."

"Dean," stated the older Winchester as he shook hands. "Nice to meet ya," he nodded toward his brother, "and Sam's who you talked to on the phone."

Josh, a blonde twenty-something who fit the mold for a Hollywood fresh-face type, rested his gear on the ground long enough to say hello and shake hands, before moving to the RV to unlock it and rid himself of their equipment.

Matt wrapped his open flannel over shirt tight across his body to ward off the cold and folded his arms against his chest to preserve heat. He pointed toward the RV. "Mind if we go in? I'm freezing."

Inside, Josh shuffled books and equipment out of the way to allow for sitting space. "Sorry about the mess," he said quietly, "there really is an organized system – it's just a very closely guarded secret."

Matt made a beeline for the kitchen. "Have a seat. You guys want some coffee?"

Sam and Dean both declined as they sat on the loveseat, but quickly went out of their way to comment on the motorcoach's interior, as if seeing it for the first time.

Matt dropped into a recliner. "So, you're friends of Scarlett's."

Dean tilted his head and nodded, indicating a so-so kind of answer. "Friends of a friend. A buddy of mine almost became her nephew."

"Really?" Matt answered. His tone was noticeably ambiguous.

Dean smiled, knowing exactly what the man was thinking. "Yeah. And yes, he does consider himself a very lucky man about the 'almost' part."

Matt couldn't prevent the soft, knowing laugh that escaped. "She's definitely one-of-a-kind. You said on the phone you're doing an article on the Wheelock Mission for one of the psi mags?"

Dean nodded. "We're freelance, we haven't shopped it yet; but we're thinking the history, the stories, that kinda thing. Scarlett said you were there last night, but couldn't go back?"

Matt nodded soberly. "We're techies, man. I've got four people working for me and between the five of us our education and employment histories cover MIT, the Rhine Center, Boeing, NASA, Microsoft, and Josh, here, spent four years as a magician's assistant in Vegas."

"We experiment, debunk, and figure out. But the Wheelock...we have a **consultant** for cases like this." He called out to his partner, who was in the rear of the RV. "Hey Josh, where are Judy's pics?"

The other man's soft voice floated out from the back. "In the case folder…check the red bag."

A crimson-colored Jansport backpack rested against the loveseat by Sam's feet. Matt gestured toward it. "Dig through there. There should be a manila envelope with some Polaroids."

Sam found them floating loose in a tan folder marked 'Ellis, Scarlett/Wheelock Mission', and shared them with Dean. Though no face could be seen, the subject was obviously female. She stood in a bra and jeans and the focus of the photos was clearly several slash marks across the front of her torso.

"That's Judy, our videographer. We got in yesterday morning and interviewed Scarlett and a couple of the contractors who claimed to have experienced things at the mission. We went in about ten o'clock last night and did the usual frequency checks, vibration measurements, and camera and sound set-up and sweeps."

"Around eleven, Judy and Josh were up on the second floor, there's a room towards the back, and Josh says she just yelled and fell backwards. He thought she tripped over something – till he saw the blood soaking through her t-shirt."

Sam studied one of the photographs closer. "They don't look too deep. Is she okay?"

"Yeah. Superficial cuts, but she spent the rest of the night here at the hotel. She said it was like something hit her. Josh had a thermal scanner that recorded a thirty-degree temperature drop at the time of her 'fall'." Matt crooked his fingers to indicate quotes, and the expression on his face indicated his true suspicions.

"I've been doing this stuff thirteen years and have found a lot of very boring solutions to a lot of supposed paranormal activity….but Judy isn't some clueless hick, or someone trying to pull a fast one."

"Could we interview her?" asked Dean.

Matt answered with an apologetic smile. "She was a little wigged out, decided to fly out early."

"Fly out?" Sam prompted.

"Next job. England. We called in our consultant for this one and decided to go with the better paying job."

"Better than ten grand?"

"The BBC," Josh answered, as he came from the back of the RV while looping up some audio cable. "Got the message last night. We've been invited to go to England for ultimate ghost hunting - $100,000 prize."

"They even sprung for First Class on the flight over." Matt added, with a little-kid grin.

"One hundred thousand?" Dean choked out.

Matt exchanged looks with Josh. "It would sure help get the franchise off the ground."

"Franchise?" asked Sam. He was really beginning to wonder if the entire, little Oklahoma town wasn't under some sort of strange spell where nothing was normal, because making a decent living from ghost hunting was not normal.

"Yeah," answered Matt. "Home base is Denver, but it'd be easier if we were in Florida and Nevada too. Cracker's coming in, so if you're interested in an up-close and personal with the Wheelock, all you need to do is impress the professional."

"Cracker?" Sam questioned.

"Nickname," answered Josh, dropping the cable in a small footlocker. "Our psychic - flies in tomorrow morning, likes tough jobs."

Matt pulled his wallet from his back pocket and fished out a business card. "Here ya go."

Sam took the card but Dean snatched it from his fingertips after seeing the name. "Stacey May," he read aloud.

"The cell on that is always good, or you can swing by here any time after….one o'clock probably. We drive back tonight, but you can ask for Stacey at the hotel's front desk."

A cell phone ring tone interrupted their conversation, chirping the theme to 'The A-Team'.

Matt patted the pockets of his cargo pants until he located a small Motorola. " 'scuse me."

"Go ahead." Dean replied. "Thanks for your time." He held up the card and the brothers shook hands with Josh before leaving.

Walking to the Impala, Dean studied the card and let the psychic's name roll off his tongue. "Stacey May….sounds blonde. Ooh, 'Ghost Whisperer'. Maybe she's got a Jennifer Love-Hewitt thing goin' on."

Sam shook his head. "I don't know what I'm going to do if we ever have to investigate a haunted brothel."

TBC...


	11. Chapter 11

**Authors' Notes: Thank you for the kind reviews! Mog and I are working hard on this fic and having a great time writing it. We do like research to insert a little realism into our fics-it is a quirk of ours. Hope you enjoy!**

Part 11

Visible shafts of afternoon sunlight filtered down through fading clouds and warmed the interior of the car. Sam gratefully accepted the change in the spring weather. He was still trying to shake the memory of his experience in the mission that morning, and the buried emotions it brought to the surface. Sitting in the passenger's seat, he slowly ate a peach and focused on Dean's phone call as a way of redirecting his thoughts.

"Hey, Frankie, it's Dean….yeah, Dean…yeah, I do sound the same over the phone."

Sam tried not to laugh but he received a dark look all the same.

"Listen, we're looking to get some directions. We're at a fruit stand, close to Road C and North 4525…yeah, that's the one. Those three little girls, where are they buried?" He listened quietly and Sam imagined his brother mentally noting directions.

Dean began nodding and Sam quickly recognized his brother's familiar, impatient frown – Frankie was on a stream of consciousness tangent. Dean finally cut in.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure. Glad you got some afternoon delight…No, no, dude, TMI. I gotta go, okay? Later."

Dean hit the disconnect button and scowled at the smirk coloring Sam's face; however, it did not prevent Sam from tossing some of his brother's earlier words back at him. "What's wrong, Dean, a little senior love got you freaked?"

The older Winchester's only answer was starting the car and pulling onto the road. "Crown Hill Cemetery. It's about 20 miles east of here, off the main road as we're heading out of town."

* * *

The driver's side door of the Impala creaked when Dean pushed it closed. The cemetery sat on a small rise overlooking U.S. 70, but only semis and a handful of cars cruised the long stretch of road. Their droning sounds blended with the breeze to create a peaceful white noise.

Sam was already out of the car, walking ahead. "This is the same conversation of the last twenty-five minutes."

Dean didn't try to catch up. He followed behind his brother as they walked the short gravel road into the cemetery. "All I'm pointing out is - they make a living doing this. I mean, did you see that rig? Yeah, they're doing pretty well for themselves."

Sam turned around and briefly walked backwards as he addressed his brother. "Dude, they travel all around the U.S. They were going to **England**."

"So?" Dean finally caught up, prompting Sam to turn forward again.

"You don't like to fly."

Dean exhaled sharply. "For 100 grand I can get over it."

Sam stopped and scanned the standing headstones for the marker that Dean said Frankie described. His brow furrowed.

"That's disgusting."

"What?" Dean looked to the ground, expecting to see something he should avoid stepping in.

Sam pointed to just outside the low fence at the far end of the graveyard. "A cell phone tower next to a cemetery."

Dean squinted at the tower, then surreptitiously dug in his pocket. He glanced down at his phone. "Hey, look at that - four bars. I had to stand in Ben's kitchen, facing the refrigerator, before I got a signal at his place."

Sam closed his eyes briefly but chose not to say anything. He pointed to a small angel atop a granite marker in the corner of the cemetery. "That must be it."

The headstone was two feet by one foot, a simple stone block that had been cut larger than many of the other markers in order to accommodate more than one name. The angel statue held her arms wide, as if to accept the children into her embrace. Sam couldn't help but think that the girls' rest was far from peaceable.

He pulled a pen and a small pad of paper from his inside jacket pocket and squatted down beside the marker. Weathering and neglect had worn down the edges of the engraved words. Some letters seemed almost flush with the face of the stone.

Dean shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and watched his brother try to catch the memorial in just the right light in order to read it.

"It's tough to make out," said Sam. " 'In God's arms'. Then it looks like their names - Marie Orie…Beverly Seale…and Paul? Oh, Paula Menchu." He wet the tip of one finger and rubbed it across a lower section of the stone marker. "There's a date, looks like May 17th, 1912."

He carefully copied the information to his notepad. Behind him, he sensed Dean wandering slowly away. There were times when Sam wondered how Dean's impatience would have served him in the real work-a-day world.

Sam listened with half an ear as Dean spoke softly. "Hey, check it out. It's one of those mouse-rabbit things again, like what was in Scarlett's yard. See it? Back there."

"I'm kinda doing something right now."

"Uh, Sammy…"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Just use your phone to take a picture of it. We can show it to--"

"Forget that. Look at this."

Sam finished writing and looked over his shoulder to where Dean stood, studying a gravestone near the fence. His brother's demeanor had changed and Sam went to see what he was looking at. Dean read aloud the inscription on the marble stone.

"Florence Blackburn, age 12. 'Taken too early'. Died May 17th, 1913."

The brothers exchanged a glance before wordlessly separating and scanning other headstones.

"Got one over here," called Sam. "Ruth Rose Gehrig. 'Beloved Child. Returned to God'. May 17th, 1914." He looked at her birth year and calculated her age. "She was ten years old."

Dean's eyes swept the various grave markers as he moved down the rows of the small cemetery. "Son of a bitch," he whispered, then spoke loud enough for Sam to hear. "Helen Mary Karl, 1916. Age 12."

Sam found the final one near the entrance. Dean joined him and stared at the engraving on the yellowed marble as his brother read.

"Mary Elizabeth Cohan. 'Born of God's breath, Returned by God's waters.' May 17th, 1915. She would have been nine." Sam looked at Dean. "What's going on?"

Dean shook his head. "Ya got me. There's a newer cemetery, close to town. We drove past it when I was bringing you to Ben's. "

Sam nodded. "Let's go."

* * *

The Winchester's were not surprised by what they found in the second graveyard - the headstones of young girls, some years unaccounted for, but the same month and day.

Dean yelled to Sam, "Hey, did you find anything later than 1954?"

Sam jogged to his brother. "Jeez, man, could you be a little **quieter**?"

Dean spread his arms. "Sammy, look around. I'm not waking anybody up."

Sam sighed. "No, nothing after '54. You know, it might be worth it to…"

His voice trailed off and he slapped Dean several times in the arm. Dean's focus was directed toward re-reading the closest grave markers and, without looking, he brushed off Sam's hand. "What? Cut it out."

Sam tugged hard at the sleeve of Dean's coat until his brother turned to look.

"Whoa," whispered Dean. A tingling sensation crawled up his arms and across the back of his neck.

A few rows away, a semi-opaque ball of pale yellow light slowly floated in mid-air. From their distance, Dean judged it to be approximately the size of a large grapefruit. It moved on a bobbing trajectory toward the middle of the graveyard.

"Always heard about people seeing orbs in cemeteries," said Dean in a hushed tone. When the orb hovered above one headstone, he glanced at his brother. "We gonna check it out?"

Sam shrugged, he didn't sense anything malevolent. He walked towards the grave marker with Dean following behind. However, as they approached the grave, Dean adjusted his pace to move himself between his younger brother and the orb.

The shimmering ball hung in the air at eye level, moving around them in a figure eight. "Hold still," Sam stated. "It's not going to hurt us."

"He said, just before the glowy thing killed them…." Dean muttered. A second later he heard a soft, echoing voice, throaty and feminine.

'_Ne-noth'tu…Maya'musigi skweta_…'

Dean looked at Sam, but his brother seemed only to be aware of the orb's hypnotic glow and movement. The voice came again - around him, yet in his head at the same time.

'_The Warrior and the Seer_…'

The orb held still for a few seconds, then dissipated, leaving no sign that it was ever there.

"Did you hear that?" Dean asked.

"What?"

Dean looked around. "You didn't hear anything just now?"

Sam repeated his brother's searching action, but saw nothing. "No. Should I have?"

Dean shook his head. "Never mind. It's nothing."

Sam didn't pursue it, choosing instead to direct Dean's focus downward. "Did you notice the name?"

The marble gravestone in front of them marked the burial plot of three family members. The surname carved into the stone was familiar to them both - Metis.

Sam crouched down and touched the third name etched in the marker. "Check this out – Louise Ann Metis, May 17th, 1921."

Dean shrugged. "Frankie never said anything about her. Maybe they aren't related?"

"We should ask him," Sam said, looking over the names again.

"After lunch." Dean was trying to convince himself that he'd only imagined the orb speaking to him, that it was actually just hunger talking. Low blood sugar bringing on auditory hallucinations that spoke a foreign language.

"I want more than soup this time," Sam stated, as he stood. He hadn't stopped thinking about the porterhouse that he'd been forbidden to have. His throat was still sore, but he had no interest in a liquid lunch.

"That steak sure was good last night…" Dean teased, while they walked back to the cemetery's parking lot.

"I wouldn't know. **Your** friend the doctor made me eat soup."

Dean shook his head as they reached the car and climbed in. "Yeah, okay, Sammy…you're on to us. I told Ben not to let you have the steak." He shot his brother a hard look. "Two days ago you couldn't swallow **water**! But, no, you're right…it's all a conspiracy - the cows were in on it too."

Dean pulled out of the parking lot and headed for a small diner that had caught his eye that morning. They rode in silence for only a minute before Sam spoke.

"So now cows are talking to you?" he asked, a small grin played across his lips. "You and Uncle Frankie sharing the peyote?"

"Shut up. We get something to eat and then go talk to Frankie."

* * *

Between the increasing warmth from the afternoon sun and a stomach full of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, Sam felt good with his place in the universe. He allowed himself to doze off during the drive to Frankie's.

The slamming of the driver's side door startled him awake. By the time he'd gotten his bearings and looked around, Dean was waiting for him by Frankie's front door. Climbing slowly from the car, Sam felt the weight of his sickness clinging to him. He ran a hand down his face and met up with Dean, who was knocking none too softly on the screen doorframe of the single-story home.

"I'm coming!"

The main door swung inward and Frankie stared at them for a second. "Aw, you're not front door company. Come around back."

Dean and Sam watched speechlessly as the door closed and they were left standing by themselves.

"Around back, I guess," said Dean.

"Looks like."

Against the back of the house, a gas kitchen stove had been installed. A ten-gallon stainless steel pot sat on top. The lid was clamped on with nearly 35 small, black binder clips and a two-foot copper pipe was mated to it with, what looked like, a modified, upside down kitchen sink drain and a slip-nut. The pipe rose up from the middle of the lid and had two other, narrower, copper tubes dipping down from it.

Frankie was reading a thermometer that jutted from the main pipe and scribbling something down in a battered notebook.

"What is **that**?" asked Sam, while they were still out of Frankie's earshot.

"That'd be a still," Dean replied casually.

"Aren't they illegal?"

"Here in Oklahoma? Yeah, probably." Dean tossed a wave as Frankie looked up. "Hey, who's Louise Metis?"

Frankie stopped working on the still and pulled off his aviator glasses. "You met Great Aunt Louise! How did she look?"

"Good," Dean answered, then made a vague round shape with his hands as he continued, "as a…shiny, orby thing."

Frankie looked contemplative as he gestured for the boys to sit at a weathered, wooden picnic table. "Sounds better than when I saw her last. That time she was kind of a white mist near the hall closet. Scared the crap out of me."

He stared at an unseen spot in the distance and shook his head. "You know, I just thought , the Metis clan, we're cursed like the Kennedy's…only better looking."

Sam interrupted Frankie's odd thought before he could drift off on a tangent. "So she **is** related to you?"

Frankie sat down next to him, forcing him to move over. "My grandfather said she was fifteen when she died – drowned, or so they say."

"Maybe not," Dean commented. He refrained from speculating until he and Sam could learn more.

Frankie drummed out a slow rhythm on the table with the fingers of his right hand. "This is turning into an interesting article for you boys…am I getting a cut of the action?"

Dean laughed sarcastically. "I think Scarlett is already paying for your services."

"Jeez, you make me sound like some kind of gigolo." Frankie elbowed Sam mischievously, but was studying Dean. "So what did she say to you?"

"Who?" Dean asked. Frankie didn't miss the younger man's uncomfortable expression.

"Whaddya mean who? Great Aunt Louise. And don't tell me 'nothing' because that girl always has something to say. Yeah, sure, it's only a word or two, but I'd give my best batch of gin if she'd quit waking me up in the middle of the night just to whisper something prophetic and then fade away. Takes me half a god-damned hour to fall back asleep."

Dean steered around the topic of a glowing orb speaking to him and redirected the line of questioning to focus on the girls at the mission. "I heard something in the mission…mat-ou-oui-sah elene."

Frankie's bushy eyebrows knitted together. "You're sure?"

"Dude, when the voice of a disembodied little girl whispers something to you – you remember."

"It's Shawnee…it means bad man."

Sam perked up from his slouched position of leaning on his arm. "I thought Scarlett said the girls were Cherokee?"

"Scarlett says a lot of things. But to be fair - back then, when the murders happened, those white people in charge wouldn't have been able to tell a Native American from a Chinese holyman. Those words are Shawnee. I damn well don't speak Cherokee." Frankie stood up, stretched and glanced down at Dean. "So…I was asking if Great Aunt Louise said anything to you?"

Dean ran the tip of his tongue along his bottom lip and did his best to look innocent under Frankie's steady gaze.

"Not a thing, man." Dean looked to his brother, grateful to see Sam only yawning and not reading anything into Frankie's persistence. "Listen, we're calling it a day. Sammy needs to rest up and I still owe Ben some more yard work."

Frankie nodded knowingly and patted Dean on the shoulder. He looked skyward as the boys headed for their car.

"So you can talk to a complete stranger in the middle of the day, but you have to wait till 2 a.m. to speak to me?"

**TBC **

**Thank you for reading and reviewing **


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Thank you for the great reviews. I try to get back to all of them (Mog trusts me to answer for her too). So...you finally get to meet Stacey May. We are curious to know if the character is liked or not. G> Enjoy! and review if you can!

Part 12

Dean held the Impala at idle in front of the Millerton Public Library as Sam leaned down to speak to him through the open passenger's door.

"So, you think a couple hours?" asked Sam.

"Yeah, Ben doesn't have much on the 'to-do' list, but I figure it's that much less he'll have to do on his day off."

Sam nodded. He didn't always approve of his brother's situational ethics, but times like this, when Dean did small things that showed the loyalty he had towards friends – Sam was damned proud to have him as a brother.

"Sounds good," the younger Winchester confirmed. "If I'm not out front here, I'll have my cell on."

* * *

When Dean returned, Sam sat on a bench out front. Watching some teenagers skateboarding in the park across the street, he was unaware of his brother's arrival. Dean couldn't help but notice the wistful expression on Sam's face. It made the older Winchester wish that they both held more favorable memories of their childhood.

Dean wholly understood the pangs of regret he read in his brother's expression. He chose to break Sam's reverie with a quick honk of the car horn.

A few seconds later Sam dropped down into the passenger's seat and the earlier melancholy gave way to a light in his eyes.

"You look happy," observed Dean.

"I got lucky."

"Hot librarian?"

Sam returned his brother's sly grin. "Not that lucky. But take a look at this." He flipped through the pile of photocopies in his hand and passed a few to Dean. "All these articles talk about murders, suicides, disappearances, runaways, several accidental drownings…all young females and all on May 17th."

Dean smiled at the yellow highlighting strung through some of the articles. Sam was still in college mode. "And no one ever put it together?"

"Actually, some local cop in the late 1930's did. And he was even nice enough to include his theories in his memoirs." Sam unzipped his Carhart hoodie and pulled out a book with blue-inked letters stamped across its binding - 'RESERVED.'

"Sammy! You stole a book from the library." Dean could almost picture his brother's indecisiveness over taking it. "I'm impressed."

"Yeah, well, it's going back after this is all settled." Sam treated the book gingerly, carefully turning the aged pages. "This detective noticed the pattern. He even helped with the investigations of three of the cases. Thought he knew who was doing it too - a guy by the name of Lincoln Beets."

"Pillar of the community or scumbag of the earth?" Dean asked, glancing again at the articles he held.

"Richest family in town at one point," answered Sam.

"Money talks."

"And orphaned Native American girls don't."

Dean passed the papers back to his brother, slipped the car into Drive and pulled away from the curb. "I stopped by the Ramada…the Stacey has landed."

"So, Jennifer Love-Hewitt?"

"Still don't know. The R.I.P. boys must have told her to expect us; there was a note at the front desk saying swing by the mission. I tried the cell on her card but just got one of those default automated messages." He shook his head. "I was hoping to at least hear the voice. But for the record – I'm now sensing blonde."

* * *

They drove to the mission, with Sam lowering the volume on the stereo as he found something interesting in the book to read aloud, then increasing it again as he read on to himself.

Dean started in as soon as they approached the Wheelock and he saw a lone individual standing on the grass by a Ford Explorer taking photographs of the mission and its surroundings. Though facing away from them, they could see the figure was slim and draped in a blue striped Baja pullover and loose, white linen pants that reminded Dean of pajama bottoms. Long, straight blond hair hung to the middle of the back and seemed almost white in the sun's light.

"Oh, what did I tell you? Blonde. Tall too, I'll bet she's Swedish. How much you wanna bet she's Swedish? God loves me."

Dean found an open space on the street to park and Sam could practically feel the anticipation radiating off his brother as they walked toward the mission.

"Stacey May?" Dean called out, letting the name linger in his throat.

The blonde turned and Sam covered his loud laugh with a cough.

"That's me. Hey, you must be Dean and Sam."

Dean had stopped walking - frozen in place, with his mouth hanging open slightly. Sam, however, strode forward and accepted the extended hand.

"**Mr.** May….very nice to meet you." The grin on his face had more to do with relishing in Dean's disappointment than with actually meeting R.I.P.'s psychic consultant.

The man appeared to be in his early thirties, but his pale blue eyes and high, angled cheekbones gave him the benefit of looking younger than he probably was.

"Just call me Cracker," he said, with a smile.

Dean looked skyward and muttered under his breath, "Why do you hate me?" He shook his head as he forced himself forward to join his brother, but continued to talk to himself. "Just…just fucking cruel, that's what it is."

Sam, on the other hand, still wore a highly amused grin. This grand cosmic joke would give him harassment material for years to come. " 'Stacey', is that a **Swedish** name? It's interesting."

"Named after your **mom**, perhaps?" Dean bit out, stuffing his hands in his jean pockets.

Cracker pulled an elastic band from his wrist and secured his long hair into a ponytail. He stared at them for a moment, before giving his explanation. "**By** her, actually. She was a huge Stacy Keach fan, such a great actor. But her aunt's name was Stacy too, so mine is spelled with an –ey; ya know, to kind of differentiate between the male-female spelling. " He looked at the brothers, as if waiting for them to make a comment.

Dean opened his mouth, then shut it. With a name like Stacey, the guy probably had been tormented enough throughout his life, or maybe he was just oblivious.

'_What is it with psychics and weird names?'_ he thought. _'First Missouri, now a guy named Stacey.'_

Dean had a flash of that first awkward meeting with Missouri and worked to clear his mind of anything more than commonplace thoughts. "So you're the psychic?" The disappointment of not meeting a beautiful Swede was still evident in his voice.

"Yeah, that would be me. Matt said he told you about the problems Judy had with this gig. With three spirits involved - it seemed like a challenge…I was like, yeah, count me in."

"You're talking about just the girls," said Sam. There was a slight questioning tone in his voice.

"Yeah, you know I just figured they needed some help crossing over." With two fingers, he illustrated walking. "I talked to Scarlett this morning and I think. . ."

"Greeeaaatttt," drawled Dean. "Hate to break it to ya, John Edwards, but we don't think there's just three little girls. There's something nasty in there with them. If I hadn't been with Sam, he would have taken a sawhorse to the back of the head."

Cracker raised his hands slightly. "Hey, chill - way too much negative energy coming from you. I already picked up enough from the mission." He glanced at Sam. "And you write with him **voluntarily**?"

"Pretty much," answered Sam, trying to suppress a smile. "Being born his brother is most of it."

"Ahh. And is he always like this?"

Dean spoke up. "Hello? Standing right here."

Sam ignored him. "He really does have a happy face. Today he's just feeling betrayed by the universe."

Cracker nodded and looked at Dean. "I can appreciate that. She can be a cruel mistress. Yeah, Matt mentioned you guys write articles. . .Where?"

"You know, the usual paranormal rags." Dean replied smoothly.

"Really? 'cause I subscribe to the major ones, I can't remember your names in any by-line."

The brothers answered simultaneously.

"Pseudonym," said Sam.

"We're new," Dean replied.

They glanced at each other for a split second and Dean picked up the slack. "We're in the travel article circuit, but we just started dabbling in the psi stuff. It's been an interest since we were kids. We've gotten some pieces published under a pseudonym in a couple of the smaller mags."

"We'd rather be mysterious," added Sam.

"I so get it," replied Cracker. He paused and for a moment, Dean thought he was going call their bluff. "There's more mystery with dead people," continued the psychic. "I don't like to read live people. You're all messed up, always with a chip on your shoulder to boot."

He indicated Dean with a vague wave of his hand. "I mean look at you. Let me guess - death of a parent or close loved one at a young age? Subsequent guilt complex, over-protectiveness and taking on heavy responsibility before your time?"

Dean wasn't even aware that he'd taken half a step back. It was unnerving to have your life summed up in two sentences. In that sudden moment, he felt strangely ineffectual. "That's random," he quickly replied, hoping to cover how he felt, "and so not true."

Dean's face still held a stark expression and Cracker smiled. "Psych minor, philosophy major - very ying and yang; but does the Princeton degree say that? I said 'put in ying and yang' and they're like, nope, summa cum laude…whatever."

He leaned against the rental SUV. "So are we working together or not? As I was saying, I can help those girls."

"There's more to it." Sam answered, glancing at Dean to get his permission to continue. Dean gave a tiny nod. He saw the look in his brother's eye. Sam had just met a college graduate with the shining – he was enthralled. Dean just wanted to hang back and lick his wounds.

"There always is." Cracker replied, fidgeting with a medicine pouch around his neck. "Care to share?"

"Yeah, I got some stuff from the library." Sam pulled out the photocopies rolled up in his back pocket.

"Cool. Let's walk and talk. I'd like to get more of a feel for the grounds." Cracker looked at the mission again before taking a step forward. "It's going to be an awesome B & B - I totally get Scarlett's vision."

"Aw shit," Dean mumbled as he followed behind. He gave Sam space to talk to his new best friend, but stayed within earshot to hear the conversation.

"When did you first notice you could help the dead?" Sam asked, after he'd finished sharing what they'd discovered about the annual deaths and Lincoln Beets.

"Always. I was an indigo child." Cracker placed his hand briefly on one of the mission's outside walls and took a deep breath.

"A what?" Sam looked back at Dean, wondering if he was familiar with the term. His brother just shrugged.

"An indigo child," replied Cracker. "My aura is indigo, indicative of the Third Eye Chakra." He lightly tapped his forehead, just above the eyes. "I was always, you know, special - a nonconformist, gifted and intuitive. Man, it so works for me."

"Jesus." Dean coughed to cover his reply when he realized he'd said it louder than he'd meant. "Umm, so your parents said you were special?"

"Yeah, of course." Cracker glanced at Dean and breathed a laugh. "Man, we are all special."

Dean smiled at the psychic and thought to himself, _'Yeah, and I'll bet Uncle Frankie's parents thought he was special too.'_

Dean couldn't remember the last time anyone called him special. Sure, girls said he was special, but it wasn't the same as coming from a parent.

"What about you?" Cracker stated to Sam as they continued to walk.

"What about me, what?" The younger Winchester took interest in how Cracker went about touching the mission.

"The visions?"

"Visions? Uh…No, not me," Sam shook his head vehemently. He looked back at Dean, who caught up to the twosome when he saw the panicked look on his brother's face.

"Okay, whatever, although your aura screams, 'I have nightmarish visions'. But hey, maybe I'm wrong." Cracker shrugged and took a few steps back to look up at the mission. "This is how I feel it - the action of remodeling this place activated the girls' spirits. That, in turn, drew Beets here - like a murderer returning to the scene of the crime to relive the emotional high, the thrill of the kill. Their energies are keeping him here."

Sam nodded in understanding, surprised at Cracker's succinct explanation. The psychic fiddled with the medicine pouch against his chest. "The cop was right, by the way, it was Beets. He's a wily one though. He spent all his living years lying low, and most of his dead ones doing the same. The female energy attracts him. That's why he attacked Judy, but ignored Josh. Beets is a really aggressive guy – totally yanged out."

" 'scuse me?" asked Sam.

Cracker frowned, trying to think of a better way to describe it. "He's got too much yang, ya know, male energy. Imagine a spoiled, drunk, pissed-off, frat boy football player on steroids. It's like Beets is nothing but testosterone."

Sam nodded. "So we need a way of drawing him out."

"You could dress in drag," Dean suggested with a grin.

"Screw you," Sam replied, annoyed and embarrassed by his brother's flippant remark.

Dean held his hands out in an innocent gesture. "Hey, I only mentioned drag. I didn't say anything about prostitution."

Cracker smiled. "You guys are a lot less geekified than other psi writers I've had to deal with."

Sam answered nonchalantly. "We're very hands on."

Dean flashed a cocky grin. "We're a regular occult Hallmark – weapons for all your supernatural needs."

Cracker still had an amused expression, but looked slightly unsure. "Hands on? Weapons? So you want to be all Jack Bauer about this? Yeah, that's one approach. But uh, don't you think we need a plan?"

"Nah," replied Dean, "it's pretty simple - good guys get bad guy." He gestured to the three of them. "And well, it'll be fair - one guy and two girls versus a bad guy. Right, **Stacey**?"

"Man, you are **so** using up your good karma."

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Thank you for kind reviews! We hope that you all think of this as an episode--especially with all the OC's we are putting in and we try to keep the boys forefront...now on to the action!

Part 13

"Is this where I question the wisdom of letting you guys use my hotel room as a staging area?"

Cracker had returned from meditating in a small park next to the hotel to find Sam and Dean sorting through an array of equipment spread out on the bed and floor. The variety both intrigued and concerned him.

Among the items, he saw narrow, silver-tipped arrows, a gun-cleaning kit, silver throwing stars, two IV bags with the letters 'H.W.' scribbled across them, and one from a different manufacturer marked in another handwriting labeled 'gin'.

Dean scooped up the last one and tossed it aside. "Oops. This one's from Frankie." He winked at Cracker. "Different kind of holy water."

The psychic raised his brows as he recalled Dean's comment from a few hours earlier. "When you said supernatural weapons I figured you were maybe talking **sage** for purification, maybe a **crucifix**. Can't ever recall needing a crossbow on any of my cases."

Dean finished pouring salt into several small drawstring pouches. "It's understandable," he said with a grin, "the easy jobs usually don't require it. So you all sparkly clean now?"

"The meditation was a cleansing of my **energy**, man. Unlike some people, I took my shower this **morning**." Cracker shot Sam a wink and the younger Winchester ran with the set-up.

He spoke quietly to Dean. "Yeah, dude, I wasn't going to say anything, but uh…"

Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother. "You two are so full of shit."

He snatched up the sawed-off shotgun, verifying it was loaded. Sam and Cracker suppressed their laughter as they caught him, a few seconds later, surreptitiously doing a smell test of his t-shirt.

Cracker watched Dean lay the shotgun into the bottom of the small duffle bag they were packing. "You don't think anybody's going to hear that?"

Dean shrugged. "The place is being remodeled…they'll chalk it up to construction sounds."

Cracker shot him a doubtful look, but accepted the theory. Sam secured their unused equipment back into bags and cases and gathered it all up.

"We ready?"

Dean shouldered the duffle bag and flashed a grin as he headed for the door. "Willing and able."

He held the door open for Sam and Cracker, waiting until they were passing him to speak. "Ladies first."

---

Cracker parked his Explorer in front of the Wheelock and barely acknowledged Dean and Sam as they gathered their equipment from the back of the SUV. The psychic's focus was already drawn towards the front yard of the mission.

He slowly walked through the trees, shaking his head. "Man, I don't know what these maples have witnessed over the years, but they're harboring some pretty harsh energy. I mean, these are some seriously pissed off trees."

He glanced at the two men with him. "You don't feel that?" His gaze shifted from Dean to Sam. "**You** feel it, don't you?"

Sam hoped his resulting expression of surprise was interpreted as ignorance. He **had** felt something, but he made himself believe it was adrenaline – anticipation of the hunt. He was saved from answering by Dean quickly moving between him and Cracker.

"Yeah, well, unless they start huckin' stuff at us, the only thing I care about is cleaning that place for ten grand." Dean looked at his brother. "Sammy, take rear, I got point."

The entry way was just as Dean and Sam had seen it the previous day, - remodeling dust and general disarray. Following Cracker's advice, they moved upstairs. Dean wasn't surprised when the needle of the EMF meter peaked into the red zone as he hit the top step. He flipped it off and slipped it into his pocket.

Cracker moved past him, heading down the left-hand passage of the hallway to the main room. "This way."

Dean exchanged a glance with Sam, before addressing the psychic. "You came in here this morning?"

Cracker shook his head in a distracted way. "Didn't need to. There's more weird vibes coming out of this back corner than from the first ten rows of a Phish concert."

As he walked, he absently dug into a messenger's bag slung across his chest and pulled out a Bic lighter and a small bundle of sage wrapped with purple string. As if drawn by an invisible cord, Cracker continued on to the back of the old dormitory.

Dean forced himself to look up at the stained glass window he was sure he'd seen move the day before. It sat totally still, locked into the frame. It didn't prevent Dean from tightening his grip on the salt-primed pistol in his hand.

Cracker stopped outside the small room where Dean and Sam experienced the malevolent energy. With the Bic, he touched a flame to the sage. Moving in a wide circle, he wafted smoke out toward the walls of the main room. "We ask all that is good, kind and beautiful in the universe to help us today."

Dean paced two of the perimeter walls. He'd positioned himself to be closest to the room where he'd seen the dark spirit hanging over Sam's shoulder. No way in hell would that thing get close to his brother again.

Sam stood with his back to a window, unconsciously shifting from foot to foot. He knew Dean had purposefully taken the far position. It was one of the few times Sam didn't mind his brother's overprotective nature. The physical sensation of blood splattering against his skin was still fresh in his mind, and it stirred painful memories of Jessica.

His forced his attention to the task at hand. His eyes never stopped scanning the room, while he listened to Cracker's monologue for protection and cosmic assistance.

The psychic laid the smoldering bundle of sage on the floor and retrieved a small pouch of ground tobacco flakes from his messenger's bag. He followed the circle he'd made while smudging, sprinkling the tobacco onto the floor.

"We ask assistance from the Creator to--"

A bang and clatter to his right pulled his focus immediately to a window on one wall. He and Dean stared as Sam shoved a plastic sawhorse out the now-open window, before slamming it shut. Sam turned back to find himself the center of attention.

He picked up the sawed-off shotgun he'd leaned against the wall and looked at them innocently. "What?"

"Any other equipment you'd like to drop out the window?" asked Cracker.

"Just that one piece," answered Sam, hitching a thumb toward where the sawhorse lay, two-stories down.

Cracker began again. "We ask assistance from the Creator to guide those who have not found their way home to their place of peace and rest. We ask those who are here in this space to come forward so they can complete their journey and rejoin the Creator."

He stopped abruptly and stared in the direction of the hallway. A grin spread across his face. "Hello ladies."

Dean and Sam followed Cracker's line of sight - three figures stood side by side. Sam blinked as his eyes tried to adjust to seeing through forms that his brain told him should be solid.

Clearly Native American in their facial features, the girls wore their hair in long pigtail braids. Although dressed in jumpers with white, long-sleeved shirts, and heavy stockings and ankle boots, Sam couldn't help but notice an all-over grey tone that enveloped them. It gave him the impression that they'd kept the dreariness of their death as a mantle upon them.

Cracker spoke in a soft, gentle tone. "The Great Divide is there before you for you to cross. The Great Spirit protects you. Follow the good road to join your ancestors."

Holding hands, the girls moved silently toward the psychic. Cracker continued his quiet communication. "The pain that followed you from life no long holds you. Now there is only--"

He inhaled sharply at the same moment the girls opened their mouths and screamed. Sam raised his shotgun, scanning the room for a target. From the corner where he maintained guard, Dean did the same.

"What is it? Whaddya we got!" yelled Dean. "Is it Beets!"

The girls' images faded, only to be replaced by unearthly whispers filling the hollow space of the large, empty room.

"mat-ou-oui-sah elene…mat-ou-oui-sah elene…."

Dean recognized the words immediately. It was the same thing he'd heard before in the mission, the words Frankie had translated. He felt a rush of icy wind spin past, pricking at his skin and chilling him to the core.

"Stay sharp, Sammy! Bad man comin'!"

Cracker's voice added to the confusion. He called out to the girls, trying to prevent them from disappearing as the whispering faded. "No! Wait…Don't go! You don't have to be afraid. You can free yourselves! He can't hurt you--!"

The Winchester's watched as an invisible hand lashed out, knocking the psychic to the floor. Spun sideways, he landed hard on his hands and knees and knelt low for a few seconds.

"Sweet magic 8-ball," he gasped.

Sam crossed to check on him but Cracker waved off the assistance and stood up on his own. He closed his eyes and took in a long breath, trying to calm and center himself. Opening his eyes, he tilted his head slightly, as if listening.

"Now, let's see what we can learn about our very uncool party crasher."

The psychic moved slowly around the room, unfazed by the weapons and offensive positions of Dean and Sam. "Lincoln Beets – you are not welcome here." As he walked, he concentrated on pinpointing the dark energy. "Doesn't like to be challenged."

"Tough shit," Dean stated.

Cracker pointed abstractedly toward Dean. "Oooh, and he doesn't like you…you irritate him."

"Try living with him." Sam added, but moved slowly towards his brother.

"He's threatened by you." Cracker abruptly rolled his eyes and released an exasperated sigh. "Oh, for the love of Buddha…I'm stuck in an ethereal pissing contest."

" 'Scuse me?" Dean asked. He ceased his back and forth visual sweep of the two rooms he stood between and looked at the blonde man.

"He's threatened by the 'machismo.' Man, you got too much testosterone for him." Cracker answered, throwing his hands up in the air.

Dean showed a cocky grin. "Well, that's a given." He raised his voice. "If the little chickenshit had the balls to come forward, I'd have something else for him."

Sam drawled out his brother's name in a warning tone. "Dean."

He was surprised to receive a wink in reply. Then Sam understood. If Dean could distract Beets, it would give Cracker the opportunity to guide the girls' spirits 'home'.

"C'mon Sam, I'm pretty sure 'cojones grandes' aren't part of this guy's equipment list, if ya know what I mean. Profiles show that many serial killers have serious sexual difficulties."

Cracker began to softly repeat his call to the girls, while Dean spoke a little louder.

"Even if he **did** manage to approach a woman, she'd probably laugh in his face…or did you have to pay for it, Beets? Hittin' those 'houses of ill repute' for some skank only to find out you couldn't get it up?" He leaned back against the wall, taking a casual stance, but not relaxing his grip on the pistol. "It must really suck to be you."

Sam shifted his focus from the main room over to his brother just in time to see the attack begin. A section of the white wall over Dean's right shoulder bulged outward, becoming viscous and malleable. It was as if a furious human face was trapped inside the structure - stretching, desperate to push its way out through sheer force of angry determination.

With mouth open, teeth showing, it lunged toward Dean's shoulder.

"Look out!" Sam raised the shotgun, but his brother's proximity prevented him from getting off a shot.

Dean spun to his left as the rage-filled face morphed back into the wall. He caught Cracker's eye when the psychic broke concentration to check on him. "Keep going!" Dean yelled.

Before he could push away from the wall, an arm with a long-fingered, clawed hand bulged forth in the same manner as the face had. Like a fluid, alabaster worm it wrapped around Dean's throat, pulled him hard against the wall and lifted him off his feet.

The pistol dropped from Dean's grip as he fought to release the pressure at his throat. Staring down the sites of the shotgun, Sam closed the gap between himself and his brother. He gritted his teeth, frustrated at the inability to have a clean shot.

Half a foot off the floor, the heels of Dean's boots slammed against the wall as he struggled and dug at the arm cutting off his air supply. Sam watched helplessly while his brother was dragged along the wall towards the doorway of the small room adjoining the dormitory. The white arm dissolved into the plaster as Dean was flung backwards into the room.

The door slammed shut before Sam could reach it, but that didn't stop the younger Winchester from throwing himself at it.

"DEAN!" Sam pounded hard against the door, sickened by the equally loud crashing coming from where his brother was trapped. "Son of a **bitch**!" He took two steps back and fired a blast of rock salt at the door. The surface of the solid wood chipped slightly, and spat back beads of salt at Sam.

Cracker's low, soothing voice was eerily juxtaposed with the violent noise from the next room and Sam's desperate attempts to reach his brother. "Now is your time to cross the Great Divide. The Great Spirit protects you. Follow the good road. Your ancestors await you."

Something large hit the door just as Sam twisted the knob and pressed hard against it. The reverberating force knocked him back a few inches and Dean's pain-filled yell echoed from inside the room. Sam spun on the psychic. "Do something!"

Cracker shook his head, but his focus never left the floor. "They're still here!"

The room seemed to rattle with rage and despair and the psychic winced, as if consumed by a feeling of complete desolation. "I don't know what's holding them."

Sam shouted angrily. "Forget them! That thing is killing Dean!"

Cracker's head shot up and he looked at Sam. "Freeing **them** will help him. Trust me!" His eyes grew wide as a thought struck him. "Their names! What were their names!"

Sam stared back. "What! I don't--" His expression changed in an instant. "I know!"

He looked at the door and prayed he was doing the right thing by abandoning his attempts to reach his brother. Tucking the butt of the shotgun under his arm, he pulled a small notepad from his inside jacket pocket. Frantically, he flipped through the pages. "Here! Here! Marie Orie, Beverly Seale, Paula Menchu."

Cracker spoke the names again. "You are surrounded by all that is good, kind, and beautiful.

Seek the road to peace."

As he spoke, a low rumble shivered up through the frame of the mission. The glass in the windows vibrated violently and dust shook down from the ceiling. Sam and Cracker exchanged a glance, each having the same thought.

Sam yelled, in hopes that Dean was still in good enough condition to react. "GET DOWN!"

He hit the floor as the windows' glass exploded outward. Shards rained down onto the hardwood floor, clinking together with an eerie musical tone. Silence settled on the mission and Sam and Cracker lifted their heads to see the figures of the three girls standing again, hand in hand.

The children smiled, and as the two men watched, the shroud of gray that permeated the girls, gave way to a glowing swirl of pale blues, pinks and bright whites. The intensity of the light grew to a blinding level, forcing Sam and Cracker to shade their eyes and look away.

The glow faded and Sam blinked repeatedly in an attempt to chase away the remaining streaks of white peppering his vision. He released his grip on the shotgun and pushed himself up off the floor. Moving towards the closed door to his left, he glanced over at Cracker just long enough to see that the psychic was no worse off than him.

"Dean?" Sam twisted the knob and hesitantly pushed on the door. It offered no resistance, but he was afraid of what he might find on the other side.

"Dean?" His breath rolled out in a cold puff of fog. The temperature in the room was near freezing and a white layer of frost dusted the floor. However, Sam's fear and tension melted away the instant he saw his brother kneeling low, leaning on his elbows, shaking his head to remove shards of glass from his hair.

Sam crossed to him quickly but Dean raised a shivering hand to stop him.

"Gimme a sec," whispered Dean. He coughed several times and spat on the floor. Saliva thick with blood stood out, garishly red, against the hard wood floor.

Worry began to crest in Sam again. "Dean?"

The older Winchester could hear the tightness in his brother's voice and he forced himself upright, leaning back on his calves. "I'm here."

He could have used a longer moment to compose himself but Sam needed to know he wasn't seriously injured.

"You all right?" Sam asked, hanging back a few feet. His brother's face was flush and Sam could tell there would be a colorful bruise or two come the morning.

Seeing the weary expression on Dean's face, he now understood that his brother didn't want to be crowded. He waited for Dean to open his eyes and meet his gaze.

"You think that old bastard could take me?" Dean smiled and Sam could only shake his head at the smears of blood across his brother's teeth.

Sam stripped off his coat and Dean offered no resistance as Sam helped him into it. Sam slid an arm around Dean's back, supporting much of his brother's weight as he stood. Sam's height allowed him to see the patch of blood streaming through Dean's hair from an abrasion at the back of his head.

"Looks like he got in more licks that you."

Dean gingerly touched the wound. "Sucker punch."

"You sure it wasn't more like 'sucker getting the back of his head smashed against the wall'?"

Dean leaned on his brother and hobbled forward. "There could have been a little of that too." He did his best to show a cocky grin. "But you'll notice who's still here."

He let Sam break away to collect their weapons and watched Cracker carefully scooping a small mound of gray dust into the pouch that earlier, held the crushed tobacco flakes.

"Dude, we just get rid of the Caspers - we don't clean up after them."

Cracker raised his gaze from his crouched position and stared at Dean for several seconds. The psychic sensed that his actions were misinterpreted. The girls had shaken off their old entrapment and left behind the gray ash of their torment.

"No part of this is Beets," replied Cracker gently. "This is all that remains on this earth of those girls - they need to find some peace." He brushed the remaining handful of ash inside the pouch and pulled the drawstrings tight.

He carefully tucked the pouch into his messenger's bag before hitching the satchel onto his shoulder. He pulled a handkerchief from the bag and passed it to Dean, who stared at it for a second before Cracker spoke up.

"Relax, it's clean."

Dean nodded his thanks and took the cloth to wipe the blood from his lips, and then dabbed it at the back of his head.

Cracker studied Dean once more, revealing a small smile. "Nice use of testosterone, by the way. You do look like crap though."

Dean tossed back a dry, fake laugh. "Yeah, well, somebody had to do the **man's** work. Oh, and uh, yeah, I'm fine. No, really. Thanks for asking."

"We done here?" asked Sam.

Cracker closed his eyes for several seconds. Opening them, he nodded. "Totally, man."

Dean whooped loudly and headed for the stairs, patting Sam on the back as he passed. "Ten freakin' grand, bro!"

Cracker followed behind but took several long steps to catch up with Dean. "You sure you're all right?"

"Yeah," Dean replied, brushing away some dust from his shirt.

The psychic cocked his head slightly. "No pain in your arm?"

Dean looked at Sam in confusion, then at his arm, expecting to see something. "No."

Cracker pointed to the left arm. "Nothing that feels like maybe a break around the left wrist?"

Dean stopped and moved his wrist, but just as quickly, felt foolish for checking. "No. What are you talking about?"

"Nothin'." Cracker waved him off, and started again for the stairs. "Just thought for sure - break in the left arm."

"You sound disappointed."

Cracker sighed. "Well, yeah, I mean, you know – 'psychic'…it **is** how I make my living. Being wrong doesn't really impress the paying customers. You're sure there's nothing wrong?"

He paused at the top of the steps, letting Sam go by, and reached out to squeeze Dean's left wrist.

Dean slapped the hand away, irritated by the invasion of his personal space.

"No, there's nothing wrong. Cut it out, will ya?" His eyes narrowed as he looked at Cracker. "Jeez, with a condition like yours you must not get a lot of dates."

Sam stopped halfway down the stairs, frozen by the words, and looked up at his brother.

"Being psychic isn't a problem." Cracker looked at Sam and gave him a knowing nod.

"Not that," Dean stated. "I meant being an idiot." He grinned and took the steps two at a time to join his brother.

The younger Winchester smiled. "He said he was an **indigo**."

Dean glanced up the stairs and flashed Cracker a cocky expression, before purposefully snapping the fingers of his left hand. "**That's** what it was."

Cracker shook his head. "I am so telling Scarlett the windows were your fault."

TBC-- we are not done by a long shot!


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** We hope we have cleared some things up in this chapter. Mog also posted to the reviews page just in case. We are working on the big reveal...and hope you are all surprised. This is just a fun chapter. Please read and review and we hope you enjoy!

* * *

Part 14

Dean slumped in the passenger's seat of the Impala, drumming his fingers in a staccato rhythm on his thigh. "You could drive a little faster, ya know."

Sam shot his brother a reproving glance, but wasn't surprised that Dean's aches and bruises hadn't slowed down his eagerness to claim Scarlett's payment. "You could relax a little, ya know." He looked back at the road. "The money's not going anywhere."

"The speed you're drivin', **we're** not going anywhere either."

Sam purposefully let up a little on the gas just to spite his brother and checked the rearview mirror for Cracker's Explorer. Ten minutes later, he parked the Impala in front of Scarlett's house and Dean was out of the car before the engine was off.

Sam jogged to catch up with his brother, who was already on the porch, ringing the doorbell. They'd each made a conscious effort not to make eye contact with any of the gnomes, flamingos, or other plastic paraphernalia decorating the lawn. They'd had enough creepiness for one day.

As a testament to their weary conditions, neither Winchester flinched when Frankie answered the door wearing nothing more than a white tank top and shorts.

Sam paused just inside the front door, hoping they had not come at a very bad time. He really didn't want to picture Scarlett and Frankie 'together'.

"Damn, Uncle Frankie," Dean said as he breezed into the house, "it's the middle of the afternoon - put some pants on. Scarlett's got guests."

"Hold up there, peshewa." Frankie reached out, catching Dean's chin and tilting it to inspect the bruises on the younger man's face and his split lip. "If Ben is such a lousy doctor why do you want to give him so much business?"

Dean pulled away. "Nothing's broken." He held his arms away from his body, as if inviting inspection. "I just need a hot shower, some Advil and I'll be good."

A knock on the open door turned their attention to Cracker entering the house. He held out his hand. "You must be Uncle Frankie. I'm Cracker."

"Cracker? Like something you eat with cheese?"

"Uh, well…not quite," Cracker started.

"Nickname," Sam explained. "He's the consultant - a psychic."

Frankie shook the hand that Cracker had started to withdraw. "What am I thinking now?"

Cracker furrowed his brow, unsure of what to make of the man before him.

Uncle Frankie interpreted the silence as not knowing and frowned. "How about now?" When the psychic didn't reply he added, "I can give you a hint."

"Uh, it doesn't work that way for me. I usually deal with dead people." Cracker glanced at Dean and Sam for help, but both merely stood silently, looking amused.

Uncle Frankie sighed in disappointment. "I was thinking that it's always the homeless people who have the best shopping carts." He clasped his hands briefly before rubbing them together with enthusiasm. "Well, **I** must be psychic 'cause I figure you're all here for the money?"

Dean shot him a dry look. "Yeah, mind reading powers and listening in on the phone call Scarlett got twenty minutes ago."

Frankie just shrugged at the accusation. "She kicked me out of her boudoir while she opened her safe." He glanced down the hall towards the bedroom. "It hurts that she doesn't trust me."

Scarlett came from the room, holding a large stack of bills. "Honey, my momma said never trust a man when it comes to money or marriage." She doled the cash out into two even piles and rested them on a nearby table.

"Hey, shouldn't this be thirds?" Dean said, pointing to himself, Sam and Cracker. "We split it three ways – one, two, three."

"Man, I don't do the kinky thing," Cracker quipped. He took one pile of money, secured it with a hair band and tucked it into his messenger's bag. "You guys are a team, I'm solo."

A perceptive expression colored his features. "Ya know, I meet a lot of 'hobby hunters' in this field. You know – clueless geeks who saw 'Ghostbusters' and 'Poltergeist' as kids and now spend lots of money on equipment but who are still just…well, it's harsh but - clueless geeks.

"But you two," he revealed a slow smile, "man, you guys got some craaazy energy. Like fine-line mojo, ya know? That was some nice work back at the mission. Kept your heads and used what ya had. You're naturals, man. You could do this full time, really help people. And you'd still get to travel…you just don't have to write a review about it."

He looked at his watch, then to Sam. "Listen, can you spread the ashes over the grave? I would so be there, but I'm due on a plane for England and I still have to return the rental." He gingerly handed Sam the pouch he'd retrieved from his bag. "You guys know how it is – a hundred grand is a lot of money."

"A special guy like you into materialism?" Dean asked acerbically, glaring at Sam for easily accepting the ashes.

"A psychic's gotta eat." He bowed to Scarlett and took up her hand, kissing the back of it lightly. "Thank you. I think the bed and breakfast will be a great success, but you should think about hanging some crystals."

"Ohh, crystals," Scarlett nodded.

Cracker shook Dean's hand, but paused briefly before letting go. He tilted his head slightly. "Man, you really are still bent outta shape because 'Stacey' wasn't a member of the Swedish Bikini Team?"

Dean couldn't prevent the startled look that flitted across his face.

Sam leaned towards Uncle Frankie. "Dean hasn't exactly been Mr. Friendly - he thought Cracker was going to be a hot chick."

The older man placed an arm around Dean's shoulder. "Son, you don't know the difference between a boy and a girl?"

"Shut up," Dean mumbled, removing Frankie's arm from his shoulder. Uncle Frankie shook his head, and went back down the hallway.

Cracker shook Sam's hand. "Remember man, we are **all** special. Call me if you, ya know, wanna talk or anything."

He patted Dean on the arm. "You should work on building up a protection aura so you're not so easy to read."

He exchanged a knowing grin with Sam, but Dean didn't see the look. The idea of being easy to read jarred him and he could only focus on clearing his mind.

Scarlett walked with Cracker to his car. "You were really able to pick up on that?"

The psychic shook his head with a smile. "Oh, not at all. Sam told me. It was actually pretty tough to get **anything** off of Dean." He shook her hand. "But, you should really get those crystals."

Sam laughed when he caught Dean looking out the window, watching Cracker's SUV pull away.

"What?" Dean asked, feeling like he was missing something. "I don't see what's so funny; thanks to you we're stuck making another trip to the cemetery."

Sam tightened the drawstring on the small pouch. "I gave him my cellphone number."

"Greaat," Dean drawled, "your own psychic network."

"And yours too," Sam added.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Sammy," he advanced on his brother, but restrained himself, "why do you torture me? 'Cause you know I can kick your ass."

He ceased his tirade when he saw Frankie coming down the hall. The cowboy boots and jeans weren't out of the ordinary, but the slicked-back hair and loud, striped orange shirt gave Dean pause.

"I'm coming with you boys," Uncle Frankie said as he buttoned his shirt.

Dean sniffed the air, but regretted it instantly and tried to waft away the strong fumes. "Did you put on cologne to go the cemetery?"

Sam winced as he got a smell of the pungent aroma.

Uncle Frankie took in a deep breath, happy with the scent. "Yeah, you never know who you'll meet."

* * *

**TBC...**


	15. Chapter 15

Authors Notes: Thank you for all the reviews and questions. As was said in the beginning this is a fic within a fic, and you'll see why in this part. Unfortunately, we wont post again until next week, but hopefully we will post two parts and finally get to the conclusion (or not G>) Thank you again and hope you enjoy and review.

Part 17

"Frankie, look!" Dean swatted at the man walking in front of him and pointed to one of the large, fluffy-tailed rodents he and Sam had seen previously.

Uncle Frankie looked at the marker that Dean gestured towards. "You get hit on the head too hard? Of course there's going to be gravestones in a cemetery."

"Forget it, Dean," Sam replied, having seen the creature too. He led the way to the grave of the three Shawnee girls.

Uncle Frankie bowed his head when they reached the plot and in a low voice began singing. From the language, Sam suspected it to be a Shawnee prayer.

"These girls need flowers," Frankie stated. He bent down, placing his hand on the marker, and stayed there for a minute, concentrating, before he stood.

Looking out into the cemetery, his eyes narrowed and he pointed to another gravestone. "Hey, I didn't know he died!"

He walked towards the granite headstone, then noticed another marker to the right. "I knew him too…"

As Frankie wandered, Sam knelt and carefully emptied the pouch of ashes into the dirt in front of the girls' headstone. The late afternoon sun beat down on his back, warming the thin material of his flannel overshirt.

Not knowing what the appropriate words should be, he merely whispered, "Rest in peace."

He wrapped up the small bag and stood. Dean caught his brother's eye and gave him a nod.

Frankie called out to them from one row over, where he paused in the middle of what seemed to be quite the discourse with a gravestone. "There's some flowers over there!"

"Man, you are cheap," Dean yelled back, then noticed Sam walking towards the wild rose bush growing along the fence that Frankie pointed at. "And why are you listening to him?"

Sam shrugged, searching for an explanation. "It's a good idea."

"Coming from **Frankie**?" Dean retorted. He watched his brother struggle to break some of the rose stems off. The plant, however, was unrelenting and Sam's first attempts brought about little more than petals on the ground.

"Jeezus, Sammy, you keep shaking it like that, you're gonna end up with a stick." He walked towards his brother. "It's small, just pull the whole bush up."

Sam shot him a look, while still gripping a very green stem that held several miniature blooming flowers. "I'm not going to pull the bush up."

Dean reached his brother as Sam grabbed a stem deeper in the rose bush to try to break off another part. He looked over his shoulder at Dean. "Don't you have your knife? Ow! Thorns."

It was then they heard the distinctive rattle.

A timber rattlesnake lay curled in the dirt, hidden by the tall grasses surrounding the base of the plant.

Dean spoke in a quiet voice. "Okay, just ease back. They're not aggressive…."

Taking in a deep breath, Sam slowly uncurled his fingers from the rose bush. He exhaled, cautiously pulling his hand away. His pulse raced in time with the clicking rattle of the pit viper's tail. It wasn't until the plant's long stem began to bow towards him that Sam noticed the row of thorns caught on the sleeve of his denim overshirt.

"Shit," he whispered.

The continued movement of the small bush heightened the startled reptile's agitation.

Dean kept his eye on the snake. "Don't jerk it."

"I'm **not**," hissed Sam, "I'm **stuck**."

Cautiously, he twisted his arm, hoping he could dislodge the sharp barbs from his shirt. As he slowly pulled away, the thorns lost their grip. With the tension released, the entire section of stems snapped back with a quick jerk.

Sam's vision blurred when he felt Dean slam into him, knocking him sideways. They landed hard, a few meters away and slid into a headstone, which stopped their momentum.

Sam felt the breath forced from his lungs, but it didn't stop him from pushing away as he tried to unravel himself from his brother. "Get off," he gasped.

He scrambled back, putting even more distance between himself and where the snake had been. He sat still, staring at the tall grass and thought he saw blades shifting as the rattler sought escape under the fence.

Taking in a breath, he worked to calm his racing heart. His eye landed on a fresh rip in his sleeve. He breathed a small laugh as relief washed over him. "I'm running out of shirts." He looked at Dean. "What's with knocking me--"

His brother remained still, lying on his back and looking up at the sky, cradling his left arm.

"No," Sam whispered. Still seated in the dirt, he moved quickly. "Dean?"

His brother didn't reply right away, but instead took in two deep breaths. Uncle Frankie was already headed towards them.

"What happened?" queried the older man.

"I think I just got bit," Dean said in a tight voice. He peeled his right hand away from his forearm for just a few seconds, then clamped it back down. "Oh fuck."

"Bit?" repeated Frankie, "by what?"

"Rattlesnake," stated Sam in an anxious voice.

"You sure?"

"No!" blurted Dean sharply, "it was a legless lizard with a pair of fuckin' maracas tied to its ass! Yes, he's sure! You said they needed flowers! They're **dead**, Frankie! They don't care!"

Sam stared at Frankie. "Where's the nearest hospital?"

The older man loosened Dean's grip so he could get a look at the wound, while responding to Sam. "No good, it's forty minutes away. Yep, you got bit. Ben is our 911. I'll call him, he can be at Scarlett's by the time we get there."

"Is it all right to move him?" asked Sam.

As if the tightness in the young man's voice wasn't indication enough, the lost look in his eyes made his level of concern obvious.

Uncle Frankie laid a hand on Sam's shoulder. "He'll be okay - never known anybody who died from a rattler bite." He glanced at Dean, "Hurts like a sonofabitch, though."

Dean rolled his eyes as his breathing increased.

Frankie looked at Sam again. "But we do need to get him in the car and to Scarlett's, okay?"

Sam nodded firmly. "Right."

He wrapped his arm around Dean's back and helped his brother stand. Frankie removed Dean's watch and pocketed it before moving the injured arm down to the younger man's side. "Let's keep that below the heart. Nice and slow, just a stroll to the car." A thought struck him. "Hey, can I drive?"

Dean and Sam answered at the same time. "No!"

"No respect," muttered Frankie. He took on most of Dean's weight as they walked and he pointed to a branch lying a few feet away. "Sam, grab that stick."

With his free hand, Frankie fished his cell phone out of his back pocket, flipped it open and punched in a speed dial number.

"It's me, we need rattlesnake antivenom...No, this isn't a joke...Dean. We're at the cemetery…Gimme some credit, Ben, I'd know a dry bite. I saw venom by the punctures…No, meet us at Scarlett's. And drive fast, not like a grandma!...Okay, bye."

He snapped the phone shut as they reached the Impala. "He'll meet us there. I think he's glad he can use the antivenom before its expiration date."

Sam stared at him with a slightly shocked expression. "He said that?"

"Nah," replied Frankie, "I could just sense it in his voice."

Dean tried to help his brother calm down. "He's messin' with ya, Sammy. Remember, **Frankie** is the witch doctor. Ben's legit."

Sam didn't seem wholly convinced but he didn't say anything as he opened the rear passenger's door and pushed the seat forward so Frankie could help Dean into the back. Sam recalled a piece of the older man's conversation and used it to try to keep his mind off all the answers flooding into his brain from the question, 'What if…'

"What's a dry bite?"

Frankie took the branch from him and broke it in half. "Rattlers can control the injection of their venom when they bite. Over half of all poisonous snake bites are 'dry' - no venom used." He patted Dean's leg. "Not your luck though, eh, peshewa? You piss that snake off by trying to hit on his woman, maybe?"

His eye fell to an Impala Chilton's manual stuffed under the driver's seat and he retrieved it while addressing Sam. "You have that first aid kit here?"

"In the trunk."

"Got an Ace wrap?"

Sam nodded. "I'll get it."

He risked a glance at Dean, lying on his back, with knees bent, in the rear of the Impala. His left arm rested on the floor. His eyes fixed on the car's headliner, while his right hand clamped tightly to the spot just above the already swelling bite. Sam could see the rapid rise and fall of his brother's chest but seeing a sudden, pain-filled wince cover Dean's face jolted him back to his task.

Thirty seconds later Sam was gunning the engine of the Impala as Frankie, wedged behind the folded-forward passenger's seat, created a loose splint to immobilize Dean's arm from the repair guide, two sticks and an elastic bandage.

"Hope it's not your favorite hand," Frankie said, with a wink.

"You're a freak," Dean replied, flinching as Frankie loosely secured the Ace wrap.

* * *

To Be Continued. . . I know with a snake bite! Sorry. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Authors' Notes: First of all congratulations on reading 60 pages of fic. It has been a long journey, which isn't done yet. Remember, we promised that we would explain how Dean got the power to heal Sam. We are finally getting there and all our little hints will start to make sense. (Tecumseh's story and Frankie's Great Aunt) Trust us g>. . .**

Part 16

"Look at the pretty girl in the mirror there. Who could that pretty girl be? I'm so pretty, yes, so pretty…."

Uncle Frankie sang, closing his eyes and swaying to the melody in his head, while his voice croaked out a different tune.

"Oh, God," Dean groaned, "stop singing." He caught Sam's eyes in the rearview mirror and received a sympathetic look.

"You don't like 'West Side Story'?" asked Frankie. "I know all of Le Miz," he offered as a suggestion, before starting to hum.

"I don't think he likes showtunes," Sam reasoned. Of course, he didn't want the older man to sing anything **else** either.

"Just trying to get his mind off the pain." Uncle Frankie looked at the arm again. Swelling around the bite had increased and mottled discoloration now covered the area.

"It's not working," Dean gritted out. With his right hand, he wiped at the beads of sweat peppering his forehead. "Are the windows **broken**?" He snapped. "Can we get a little air in here?"

Sam pressed on the accelerator and rolled down his window while Frankie took care of the one on the rear passenger's side.

The younger Winchester's eyes flicked from the road to the rearview mirror and back again. "Hey, remember when you did that science experiment when we were kids? You grew grass in the dark and it was like albino grass…."

Sam looked back and this time Dean met his gaze.

"Would you watch the road!"

Sam turned his attention forward as Dean shook his head, and banged it softly against the vinyl seat, trying to refocus his attention away from the burning threads of fire radiating up his arm.

"Jesus, Sam, this must be bad - you never talk about when we were kids."

Sam ignored his older brother and continued to tell the story. "So we decided to try it with the toad…."

Dean rolled his eyes and exhaled a hissing breath as a throbbing wave worked its way up his shoulder. "Happy memory there, bro, the toad to think of it, the grass died too."

Sam winced. "Oh, yeah."

"Frankie, get your hand off of my chest - I don't want your hand to be the last one that touches me." Dean gritted his teeth. "Damn, this sucks!"

The rest of the ride was in silence, except for the sound of Dean inhaling and exhaling each breath with concentrated purpose. Sam braked hard in front of Scarlett's house. The fact that his brother didn't bitch at him for excessive wear on the brakes worried Sam more than he thought it should have.

Frankie had alerted Scarlett by phone and she met them on the porch. Holding the screen door open, she couldn't help but notice Dean's ragged breath as Frankie and Sam helped him inside.

"That's right, honey, breathe - in and out, that's right! Heesh,heesh,heesh...hooh,hooh,hooh."

Frankie placed a hand over her mouth to get her attention. "Damn it woman, that's Lamaze! I told you, he was bitten by a rattler."

Her eyes widened and she nodded before Frankie dropped his hand. She escorted them down the hall to a guest bedroom, watching as they gingerly helped Dean onto the bed.

Frankie looked at Sam. "Why don'tcha get his shoes and socks off, I'll go call Ben – find out how far away he is." He patted the younger man on the shoulder as he walked out and spoke in a low voice, "Talk to him, Sam, about anything - rattlesnake is very painful."

He put his arm around Scarlett's shoulder and escorted her out. "Let's get him some water, Letty."

Sam noticed that Dean couldn't bear to touch his left arm any longer. Pain lines wrinkled the smooth skin around his tightly closed eyes and his right hand balled up a fistful of the pale blue, embroidered bedspread. Morbid curiosity brought Sam's eyes to the unnaturally puffed and swollen arm held immobile partially by the Impala manual.

Sam winced, desperately wishing he could do something to help. _'Where's the Chilton's **Dean** Repair Guide when you need it?'_

He moved to the foot of the bed and unlaced his brother's boots. His last attempt at a distracting conversation had failed miserably. He kicked himself for forgetting how the toad had ended up.

"I could sing some Motorhead," he offered, with a small smile.

Dean attempted a grin. "No. God, this sucks." He tried to ride the waves of burning pain pulsing through his arm.

"You said that." Sam pulled off his brother's heavy boots and stripped off his socks. He couldn't help but notice that the thick fabric was damp with sweat. He tucked the boots under an antique oak vanity and carefully laid the socks across the tops of them. "I guess you were jealous that **I** was getting all the attention from Ben's nurse."

"I get all the…right kinds of attention," Dean replied, through broken breaths. "Besides…it was **my** ass she was looking at." He grinned, closing his eyes for a moment, before another shot of fire forced them open again.

A squeak and a loud bang from the screen door opening and closing signaled Ben's arrival.

"Where is he!"

"The back bedroom," answered Frankie.

"How long has it been?"

"Since the bite? About twenty-five minutes maybe."

Ben walked into the room and looked from the advanced swelling and bruising of his patient's arm to the worried young man standing at the foot of the bed with his arms folded tight across his body.

"How you doin'?" he asked Sam.

The younger Winchester merely answered with a lopsided smile indicating that very little was right in his world at the moment.

"I thought I was the patient," mumbled Dean.

"I don't have to ask how you're doing," Ben replied. "I **know** you feel like hell."

Uncle Frankie moved in behind him, set a large plastic cup filled with water on the nightstand and stepped back to lean in the doorway.

Ben dropped his oversized bag on the floor and pulled out a soft IV pouch filled with clear fluid. Though from where Sam stood, the blue letters on the bag were upside down, he could still read the label - 'Lactated Ringer's Injection, USP'. Next came one small glass vial after another, Ben vigorously shook the contents of each container before resting them on the nightstand.

"Usually we do a skin test first to see if there's going to be an allergic reaction to the antivenom, but…Sam, has he ever had an allergic reaction to any medications?"

Sam shook his head. "Never. No allergies at all; food, plant, dust, animal – none of that."

Ben pulled on a pair of latex gloves and continued to work as he talked. Tearing open several small, square packages of alcohol wipes, he swabbed the hollow of Dean's elbow, before moving on to wiping the tops of five vials and stripping away the sanitized wrapping from a needle, then from a plastic syringe tube.

He spoke in general terms to keep the brothers up on what he would be doing. "Okay, this is how it works – antivenom into our handy fluid replacement bag, then all that into Dean."

He worked with smooth, precise movements; taking only seconds to pull the antivenom from one vial into a syringe and transferring it into the Ringer's bag before dropping the glass container to the floor and moving on to the next.

After the fourth vial, Sam spoke up. "Um…how many of those do you need?"

Ben answered as he prepped the IV tubing and tied an elastic band around Dean's right bicep. "This is normal. Most bites are treated with 15 to 20 vials. We start with five and between the piggyback setup on the IV and a gravity drip, we'll get it into his system over the next hour. After that, we reload – pace the drip at a vial every five to ten minutes."

He found a vein in the hollow of Dean's arm, slid the IV needle in and untied the elastic band. "Sam, there's a pair of thick scissors in my bag, get 'em and slit that left sleeve open, can you do that for me? And watch the time, ten minutes from now we'll get that splint off."

Sam nodded, eager to do anything that might help his brother. Digging past more Ringer's bags, he finally found a rubber-handled pair of trauma scissors. He quickly moved to Dean's side but winced at the ugly condition of the affected limb. The skin was stretched tight with swelling that eradicated any muscle definition, which was usually obvious.

Sam couldn't help but notice his brother had begun shivering despite the beads of sweat across his forehead. His eyes were only half open but when Sam laid a hand on his head to wipe the moisture away, Dean struggled to open his eyes.

"Dean, man, you hear me? Stay with us. I need to cut your shirt, okay?"

The white cotton of the short-sleeved t-shirt strained against the swelled arm. Sam easily cut through the sleeve and decided to continue through the collar. He folded the loose fabric back so it rested on Dean's chest but the movement garnered a reaction.

Dean opened his eyes and focused on his brother, trying to keep contact with the familiar. Moisture glistened along his lower lids and as he looked at Sam, his brow creased with a pain-filled wince that struck the younger Winchester to the core.

Sam settled a hand briefly in his brother's hair. "I know," he said softly. "Hang in there."

Minutes passed and Ben cut away the loose Ace wrap that gingerly held the immobilizing splint in place. Dean's eyes were nearly closed and he didn't react to the jostling.

"What else?" asked Sam anxiously, as he watched Ben finish setting up a second round of treatment and rehang the IV bag from an antique floor lamp next to the bed.

"That's all for now," replied Ben. "If there was going to be an allergic reaction we would have seen it already." He pressed two fingers to Dean's right wrist, looked at his watch and checked his friend's pulse rate.

Sam spoke again. "But we got the antivenom in time, right? He's gonna be okay?"

"We got it in time, yes…but…the left arm – that close to the heart…I don't know."

Ben shook his head and looked at his patient. He fingered a cut on Dean's forehead, then touched the fresh bruise on one of his cheekbones. A puzzled expression flitted across his face and he pulled the flap of cut t-shirt down further when he noticed bruising around Dean's throat and collarbone. A reddish-purple mark extended down his ribcage and the doctor stared at Sam.

"What the hell is this from?"

"We were at the Wheelock Mission and things got a bit hairy…." He wasn't sure if Ben would believe him if he tried to explain that Dean had been in a locked room with the pissed off ghost of a 'yanged out' serial killer.

Frankie spoke up from his position in the doorway. "Got your share of Scarlett's ten thousand, though, didn't ya?" He came forward, scooping up a comforter that lay across the back of a large oak rocking chair. Maneuvering in front of his nephew, he carefully covered Dean's torso and legs with the heavy blanket and spoke to Ben.

"You did good work here."

The doctor sighed and brushed from his face a few strands of hair that escaped his ponytail. Frankie's words made him focus again on the immediate situation. "I'd like to get him to the clinic so I could at least do some blood work. The hospital would probably be better. But I don't want to risk a move if he's not stable. Maybe if I--"

"Go take a break?" interrupted Frankie. "Great idea, you should do that. Ben, I love you, but sometimes things aren't what they seem. This boy needs me now, not you. Ni chobeka."

He corralled his nephew and Sam to the door. "Go," he ordered gently. "Out." But both men resisted.

Frankie stared at his nephew. "You've got to trust me."

Sam's face registered confusion; he knew **he'd** like to see his brother in the security of a hospital. "Ben?"

The doctor studied his uncle for a long moment. "All right," he nodded, "**but**, if his breathing changes or I don't notice a reduction in that swelling - hospital."

Frankie nodded. "Go watch Oprah," he suggested, as he closed the door to the room.

Ben looked from the door to Sam. "He says stuff like **that** and then wonders why I don't trust him." He rested a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "C'mon."

Sam shook his head and shrugged off the friendly touch. His first instinct was to force his way back into the room and drag Dean out if need be. "This is crazy, why aren't we going to the hospital? I mean why did we just leave them…? That's my **brother**-"

"And **my** friend," stated Ben soberly. "Sam, I applied the same standard of care that the hospital would." He glanced at the closed door. "I know Uncle Frankie seems like a kook, but there are times - like this - when I know it's right to trust him. Like he said, 'Ni chobeka' – it means 'my medicine'. You have to believe me when I say he's given me numerous reasons to trust him in serious situations."

He laid a hand on Sam's shoulder again and guided him down the hall. "Your brother trusted me with your health. Believe that you can trust me, **and** Frankie."

Sam looked back at the bedroom, then scrutinized the doctor. "If anything happens to him…."

Scarlett interrupted the warning as they reached the front room. She fixed her large brown eyes on Sam and spoke gently. "No offense, but I hope your brother doesn't die in my guest room - I mean I'm sure Frankie kind of knows what he's doing..."

Ben gaped at the woman. "Ignore her," he mumbled to Sam. Glancing out the picture window behind Scarlett, Ben pointed. "Hey look, Scarlett, a chinchilla!"

She spun around "Where?"

Ben guided her to the door and pointed again.

"Ooh, poor thing is probably hungry." Scarlett pushed through the screen door, making an odd chirping noise. "Come here, baby."

"She's easily distracted," Ben said, turning back to Sam.

The other man stood in the middle of the living room, unconsciously chewing at the side of his thumbnail and staring down the hall. "He's all I've got, ya know?" Dad didn't count, not at that moment.

"Yeah," Ben replied, "I know what you mean." He took up position in a recliner that allowed him to see the bedroom door. On the tv in the background, the talk show audience applauded and cheered wildly over the arrival of a new guest.

Sam dropped into a matching recliner close to Ben. "I can say what I want about Dean, but no one else can throw him under the bus." He let his head drop against the high back of the chair and ran a hand through his hair.

Ben gave a half smile. "I complain a lot about Frankie - but he's always there for me."

Sam nodded without shifting his gaze from the ceiling. "Same here."

Ben glanced down at his own hands, reflecting on his uncle. "Sometimes do you think we take them for granted?" he muttered, not meaning to vocalize his thoughts.

"What?" Sam asked, pulling himself from his own thoughts.

Ben gestured to the television. "Nothing…I hate Oprah."

* * *

**Really, to be continued next week, you all got lucky with this post. Tidia is off for a quick vacation, but please review.**  



	17. Chapter 17

**Authors Notes: Well, I am back from vacation and while away MOG fixed this part. We both suggest reading the first two parts of the fic, just to refresh because we do some mirroring as you will read. So, now it all comes together, and we hope you like it. Thank you for the very kind reviews, and please keep them coming!**

Pt 17

Frankie looked at the pot of water resting on the nightstand and shook his head. It had been boiling when Scarlett brought it in. Why the woman associated Dean's condition with birthing a child, he'd never know.

The water was cooler now and Frankie used it to clean the cuts and scrapes Dean acquired at the mission. There was nothing broken and everything would heal in time. People forgot how strong the human body was, and what it took to break the body. The mind on the other hand, was easier to break. It just happened over time, instead of from one instance.

Frankie pulled up the antique rocking chair and leaned forward, lowering his head toward Dean's ear. He whispered the story he'd learned at his grandfather's knee.

"The Shawnee believe in Moneto, who rules the Yalakuquaku-migigi - the entire universe - and who distributes blessing on those who earn his favor, and sorrow upon those who merit disfavor."

He rested a hand on Dean's right arm. "I know you have earned His goodwill and I ask him to dispense His blessing and favor to you." Frankie moved his hand to Dean's chest. He watched as Dean took a long breath in, and he knew that Moneto was with the younger man.

_Dean ran through the darkening woods. Twilight shadows stretched out across the forest floor, making it difficult to see possible hazards. At fourteen, his legs were longer and stronger than ten-year-old Sam's. He prayed they could maintain their distance from the dark presence pursuing them. Slowing his pace, he positioned himself behind his brother. He would protect Sam. He would always protect Sam._

"_Keep going!" Dean prodded, "just a little farther."_

"_I can't," Sam wheezed out, using all his breath to keep running. "I'm. . .scared." _

_Dean didn't want to admit that he too was frightened. "It's okay, Sammy," he called out, mustering all the bravado he could. He heard the heavy footfalls behind them. Something moving fast, pushing out hard, hissing breaths._

_Dean looked over his shoulder, trying to see if their pursuer was gaining. Sam imitated the motion, glancing back like his brother, but his sense of balance wasn't as strong and he stumbled several times before going down._

_Dean tried to stop; however, his momentum carried him forward, and he crashed down onto his brother. He recovered quickly, shielding Sam's small body with his own. Whatever followed them would have to go through him first. But Sam wasn't moving._

_Carefully, Dean pushed himself up to check on his brother. He was suddenly aware of being his adult self and he recognized the twenty-two-year-old form of Sam, unmoving on a gravel road._

_A cut on Sam's forehead bled freely, making a spider web design on the side of his face. His clothing was dirt-smudged and smelled of smoke. Dean's hands frisked the still body, trying to pinpoint the source of injury._

_A contusion was palpable at the center of Sam's chest – his heartbeat, however, was not._

_Dean's stomach tightened and a wave of warmth and dizziness rolled over him. He tried to speak - to yell his brother's name - but all he could push out was a barely audible whisper._

_Above them, bare branches shifted and creaked. Moonlight spilling through the tree's skeletal hands laid shadows across Sam's face, keeping him half in the dark, half in light._

_Dean scanned the surrounding darkness, sensing something was close. From the shadows, the figure of a man formed. Desperate for a weapon, Dean scrambled for his knife but his pocket was empty. _

_The man was tall with a lean, muscular frame and long, straight black hair swept away from his tanned face by a wide band of cloth tied around head. A nose ring added to his intense appearance and Dean's eye fell to the small, iron-head axe clutched in one hand._

_Though still on his knees next to Sam, a flood of protective feelings broke through Dean's earlier inability to speak. "Back off!"_

_The man took in a deep breath, then exhaled. His breath fogged in the cold air and moved like a wraith towards Dean. With it came a whisper._

'_Ne-noth'tu…Maya'musigi skweta…'_

_Dean recognized the words from when he and Sam saw the floating orb at Louise Ann Metis's grave. He also remembered the phrase that came to him then._

'_The Warrior and the Seer'_

_He instinctively knew who the man was who stood before him - this was Tecumseh._

"_Help me," Dean called, reaching his hand out. He tried to ignore his embarrassment for having to ask for aid, but his brother's injuries made him less proud. He would beg if need be. _

_He disregarded the faint pain in his left arm and chest, and fought the drowsy feeling weighing down his eyelids. He needed to stay awake, for Sam's sake. He rested a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Please, help him."_

_Tecumseh's dark eyes were as inscrutable as his expression. Dean felt as if the man was waiting for something but all he could offer were words that he sensed needed to be said to the warrior at that moment._

"_My reason to fight is my reason to live - to watch over Sam, my family."_

_Tecumseh stepped forward and pressed his palm to Dean's heart. The older Winchester felt as if a vibration ran through his body. Grasping Dean's wrist, the warrior moved the hand over Sam's heart. From his palm, Dean felt a warmth spread and a steady heartbeat where before there had been none._

_He bowed his head. Though he felt weak, it was secondary to the overwhelming relief that engulfed him. Raising his eyes, Dean jerked back upon seeing the Native American man with his axe held high. _

"_The Warrior and the Seer," stated Tecumseh, as he brought down the blade._

With a yell, Dean awoke. His eyes fixed on the ceiling and he was aware of his increased respirations and the sweat that dampened his clothes. The weight of a hand on his right arm made him glance to his right. Uncle Frankie sat casually in the rocking chair. The older man showed an indecipherable expression and Dean relaxed back into the feather pillow behind his head.

"Man, weird dreams," he mumbled. "I thought you had an axe." The words 'Warrior' and 'Seer' lingered in his mind.

Frankie glanced upward, then back at Dean. "Moneto sent you Tecumseh and he gave you the strength - showed you the way."

Dean tried to pull his arm away from Uncle Frankie, but the grip stayed firm. He ran the tip of his tongue across his lower lip, uncomfortable with the older man's knowledge of his dream.

"Sorry, Frankie, I'm feelin' beat about seven ways from Sunday. I don't have a clue as to what you're talking about. The mystic-juju speak is a little over my head at the moment…."

The older man continued as if he didn't hear what Dean said. "My people have always held a great respect for the snake. It holds powerful magic and has even been associated with the same sacred power as Moneto. Tecumseh's brother was adopted by the Snake Clan, one of his names means 'rattling noise on the ground'.

"A warrior who endured the fever and trance of a snake bite, who experienced a vision - he achieved knowledge and power that could not be earned in any level of fasting or praying, or even in battle."

Frankie released his hold on Dean's arm and handed over his flask. "I had the same experience forty years ago. Well, not with the rattlesnake - have to say that was different. But, after that experience and the vision I had - I became aware of what I needed to be."

Dean took a sip, but wanted water more than moonshine. "I was bitten by a pit viper and I end up with **you** instead of the real doctor? Shouldn't Ben be in here?"

"Aww, you're just **rattled**," replied Frankie, with a smile. "Drink…it will snake you feel better. You'll fang me for it later."

Dean held the silver container an inch from his lips but stared flatly at the other man. "I'm dead – that's it, isn't it? Dead and in Hell."

Frankie nudged the bottom of the flask up so that Dean would take another swallow. "It'll put hair on your chest."

"Frankie," Dean coughed, feeling the burn of the homemade gin, "the ladies like this guy smooth."

"Maybe that's my problem." Frankie took the flask back and drank. "You know now, it's all different…Some brothers are just siblings - they mark time together for awhile, then move along in their own lives - one doesn't have to protect the other. This isn't like you and Sam, and it wasn't like that for me and Billy."

Dean closed his eyes. "Dude, I feel like shit because of venom being injected into my bloodstream, not 'cause of any dreamtime visitor." Lingering images from the dream disturbed him. He hated that he couldn't shake the vision of his brother's unmoving body.

He roughly rubbed his eyes, frustrated with the situation. "Where's Sam?"

Frankie wrung out a wet washcloth and laid it across Dean's brow. "Kid, I know you don't believe me, but I don't believe half the shit that comes out of your mouth either. I'm just telling you - you've got some special mojo now. Great Aunt Louise probably put in a good word for you."

"Frankie, I got all the mojo I can handle…" Using his right hand, he pulled off the damp rag and pushed himself up to a sitting position. "Is Sam here?"

Frankie chuckled. "I'm thinking you needed something **more** if your brother is like Billy." He shook his head. "Those little shits don't make it easy. But I always knew where my brother was - that was my connection. You may have a different connection."

"I knew when Billy and his wife didn't come home that afternoon. I knew exactly where their car had been forced off the road by a driver who fell asleep at the wheel." He tapped his chest. "I knew."

Dean shot him a look; he wasn't caring much for the direction of the conversation. His body felt weak but that didn't prevent him from calling out loudly. "Yo, Sammy!" He looked at Frankie. "So, what, you're gonna give me an Indian name now?"

"Yeah, 'Idiot Who Doesn't Listen'." Frankie stared at Dean for a moment. "Ben's coming."

Several seconds later, the door swung open and Sam stood in the doorway, a concerned expression coloring his features. "You're awake."

"Nothin' gets past you, does it, little brother?" replied Dean, watching as Ben checked on the IV before examining the snake bite.

The young doctor wore an amazed expression mixed with confusion. He glanced at his uncle. "There's no sign of any residual swelling here…what did you do?"

Frankie just shrugged. "Wasn't me." He looked at his watch. "Did I set the DVR to record 'Dr. 90210'?"

Ben shook his head but showed a smile as he held out his hand. "Uncle Frankie, you did good."

Frankie laughed and pulled his nephew in for a hug. Ben patted his uncle on the back, feeling uncomfortable with the burst of emotion. Pulling back, he pointed to Dean's arm. "I'd still like to--"

Frankie cut him off. "It can wait. I need a real drink." He draped an arm over his nephew's shoulder and guided him from the room.

Sam took a seat in the rocker that Frankie had vacated. "You okay?"

Dean stared at his brother for several long seconds. The visceral emotions and sensations from the tail end of his dream still clung to him, and Frankie's words echoed in his head.

Sam waved his hand. "Yoohoo? Dean? Anybody home?"

Dean stuttered a quick answer. "Yeah, man, I'm good. No worries."

His brother, however, sensed otherwise. "What's going on?"

"No idea," Dean replied. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. But part of him didn't care about his brother seeing the raw emotion. He just wanted to get far away, wanted to shake the unbalanced feeling. "We need to get the hell out of Kansas."

"Oklahoma," corrected Sam, with a small grin.

"Yeah, that too." Dean looked at his arm. It still hurt like a son of a bitch and it would be difficult to get sprung by Ben before he was ready. He let his head fall back on the pillow and he stared at the ceiling for a moment before a thought struck him. "Man, all the crap we've gone through over the last few days and I still don't know what the hell a chinchilla looks like."

"I think Ben said there was one in the front yard a little while ago."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Have you **seen** all the creepy-ass things in that yard? I'm not wandering around out there."

Sam picked up the washcloth that had fallen to the side of the pillow and laid it on the edge of the pot of water. "We can get Frankie to email us a picture. He's around here a lot."

Dean shook his head. "The things people do for love."

"Ya know," he continued, trying to keep a straight face, "a year from now we could come back and find out people flock from all around the U.S. to stay at Scarlett's B and B just to catch a glimpse of the elusive chinchilla."

Sam stared back at his brother before they answered simultaneously. "Naaahh."

"It's doomed," added Sam.

Dean nodded. "I don't care what Cracker says."

* * *

**To be continued in just one more part G>**


	18. Chapter 18

**Authors' Notes: And so we come to an end, as Mog and Ridley both come visit me for my law school graduation. Kudos for Mog for elevating this fic to something so beyond my original idea. Thank you for the reviews-they are appreciated and loved! It has been wonderful talking to other writers-shout out to HT Marie and carocoli (check out their fics!). So we are back to where we started in the beginning. . .**

* * *

Present Day

Dean lay on the hotel bed with his arm over his eyes. Barely an hour earlier he'd knelt in the dirt in front of Lincoln Beet's burning house and had an experience eerily similar to his dream four months earlier.

He didn't want to think about the fact that maybe, possibly, he could heal his brother and it had to do with a friend's crackpot uncle and the two hundred-year-old ghost of an Indian warrior.

Sam remained seated on the other bed, taking in Dean's story about the dream and what Uncle Frankie told him. His lips tightened in a frown. "And you never thought about sharing any of this with me?"

Dean lifted his arm from his eyes. "Oh, yeah, right, 'cause you've always been so up front about sharing those visions of yours."

Sam chose not to point out that his brother hadn't initially believed him about his premonitions. "So…what, Uncle Frankie used his witch doctor powers to put a spell on you?"

"You think I don't realize how crazy this shit sounds?" Dean looked up at a faint, brown water stain on the motel room ceiling. "All I can tell you is that Frankie kept going on and on about special connections and Tecumseh and his brother-"

"The Prophet," Sam interjected, remembering what Frankie told him while he'd been Ben's patient at the clinic.

"Yeah, and how Frankie had a connection with his **own** brother. 'Course, that would mean it's on Ben too 'cause he's always freaked that Uncle Frankie knows where he is or when he could use a hand."

Sam studied his brother for a moment, a little shocked. "Are you saying you believe all this?"

"Do you?" Dean asked. "You have the shining…**and** went to college – why don't you give me your best educated, wonderboy guess."

Sam looked at his now-healed palm. "I don't know…Dean, man, that happened four months ago, and what, it was lying dormant? Waiting for Cracker to call us and ask us-"

"Tell us," Dean interrupted.

Sam ignored him and continued, "to see if Beets was still around? Seems a little out there."

Dean eyed his brother. "So not helpful. Got anything else?"

Sam shrugged, at a loss about what to do with Dean's new circumstance. "What about calling Uncle Frankie?" He glanced around for his cell phone. "I mean, we **are** only about fifteen minutes away…."

"No," stated Dean adamantly, "and tell him he was right? God, no." He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. His eye fell to some blood spots on his shirt and he studied them for a moment before focusing again on his brother. "We're **travel writers**, remember? How are we going to explain that we're here again?"

He pushed himself up off the bed to get a clean t-shirt from his bag. "I can hear it now - 'Hey, hi guys, Cracker heard a rumor that some poor realtor got slashed by an invisible attacker while surveying Lincoln Beets's old abandoned house so we figured we'd come back into town to find out why the Caspery old fuck is still around. No, no, it's okay, we found his bones. He's gone for good…did you notice the big-ass fire on the edge of town? Yeah, that was us."

"All right, point made." Sam rubbed his forehead, trying to think of another idea.

"And don't even think about any of this when you talk to Cracker." Dean pointed at Sam's cell phone, resting on the dresser. "I mean it, Sammy - just tell him we took care of Beets and hang up."

Sam exhaled with disbelief at his brother's paranoia over the psychic consultant. "Dean, listen to yourself, man. It's not like he can read my thoughts - he's in Peru for Pete's sake."

"He's shifty," Dean said under his breath, "like a chinchilla." In Dean's mind, chinchillas had become equated with anything strange. He noticed his brother staring at him. "What?"

Sam pointed vaguely toward Dean's forehead. "You're all healed up."

The older Winchester glanced in a mirror hanging over the dresser and gently touched the spot where Sam's cut had appeared. He looked down at his palm and rubbed the unmarred skin. "It's just..."

"Freaky. Like having the shining?" Sam grinned.

"Shut up." Dean grabbed a sun-faded, pink throw pillow nestled in an arm chair and flung it at his brother.

Sam easily ducked out of the way, laughing. He couldn't help but be amused by his brother's discomfort. "Hey, I'm sure this thing is totally natural. Just think of it as molting."

Dean shot his brother a hard look. "We are **not** calling this 'the molting.' As a matter of fact, we're not calling it **anything**." He narrowed his eyes. "And don't go getting yourself hurt just 'cause you think I'll go and fix it."

Sam was still grinning, not believing a word his brother said. The truth about Dean was that he would always try to take the hurt away. Sam held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Okay, man, whatever you say."

"I mean it." Dean recognized the patronizing tone. "No paper cut healing. Those things hurt like a son of a bitch."

Sam picked up a remote from the nightstand and flicked on the television. "What about hangnails?" he asked, unable to hide a mischievous smile. "Oh! Tongue burns from hot coffee?"

Dean stalked towards his brother, determined to get him in a headlock. "Oh that's it, I am so gonna kick your butt."

A cell phone ring halted Dean's attack and Sam scooped up his brother's phone from the nightstand and tossed it to him.

Dean's face registered a surprised smile when he saw the caller ID. He flipped open the phone, throwing out a warm greeting. "Caleb, man, how ya doin'? What's up, where you at?...Palm Springs! Oh, please tell me you did not get some cush. gig in-"

Sam scanned the meager amount of tv channels and could just hear the muffled voice on the other end of the call. His split attention became focused wholly on Dean, however, when he saw his brother's expression change dramatically. He hit the mute button on the remote and watched Dean drop into the worn armchair and stare at the floor, listening.

"Where did you hear this? I mean, are we talking some cheesy rumor website or-" He leaned forward, resting his knees on his elbows. "Jesus Christ, do you really think it's her?….Uh, no, we haven't heard from him in awhile. We're not sure where he's at. But Sam's with me. We're in Oklahoma."

Dean listened for a moment, then looked at his watch. "No, man, we can hit the road tonight….no, look, Caleb, it's cool - I understand. You do what you gotta do there. Me and Sam will check it out…yeah, man, we will. You too. I'll call you when we learn something. Later."

Dean flipped the phone closed but didn't lift his eyes from the floor. Sam waited a few seconds, finally speaking when he realized his brother wasn't going to be forthcoming about the topic of the call.

"What was that about?"

Dean stood and crossed to the bathroom. "Unfinished business." He gathered up the few belongings scattered around the room and stuffed them in his bag of clothes. "I need to go to Massachusetts."

It was evident to Sam that his brother was rattled about something but the younger Winchester knew his sibling well enough to know that Dean wasn't going to talk about it until he was ready. Sam clicked off the television and went about getting his own things together.

"Massachusetts it is," Sam said. He tried to lighten his brother's mood a little and added with a smile, "I was getting bored around here anyway."

Dean stopped what he was doing and stared at his brother. Sam didn't miss the anxious look in his eyes. "Sammy, this isn't like our normal--" he cut himself off, unsure how to explain. "I mean, maybe I can drop you in New York, you could hook up with Sarah."

Sam raised his brows and showed a wry grin. It didn't matter where Dean was headed - he would be with him. "Dude...what do ever do that's normal?" He caught his brother's eye and fixed him with a determined gaze. "If you're going to Massachusetts...so am I."

Sam saw a little of Dean's uneasiness fade, but his brother just nodded once and zipped shut his bag. Whatever ghosts Dean was about to face - he wouldn't be facing them alone.

_fin_

* * *

**Authors' Notes: It was never the intention of the authors of this fic to create an AU. We giveth the power to Dean and we taketh away the power from Dean. The working title is Dogtown, and please be patient since I will be studying for the BAR. But, we have something different planned as there will be no original characters (except for the bad guys, of course)**


End file.
